


L'oiseau Moqueur

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Abusive Spouse, Bathroom Encounter, F/M, Implied Sexual and Emotional Abuse, It all happens in a Restaurant., The Author Regrets Nothing, Verbal Abuse, affair, restaurant sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desire, longing, and danger are familiar bedfellows. They all play together under the watchful eye of the L'oiseau Moqueur. The cook knows all that happens within her restaurant. The thief takes over the restaurant with his tyrannical will. His wife finds life inside the restaurant. And her lover, is in the restaurant waiting for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday - The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Thursday - The Beginning

~~~~Thursday~~~~

The rain poured down as the car left the Red Keep Estates.

She adjusted her makeup in the passenger side overhead mirror. Red, to match her hair. It made her look kissable; at least that is what her husband told her. Anything to please. She adjusted the black, tasseling fascinator resting precariously on the top of her head, making sure to not disturb one lock of her perfectly curled, sprayed, and pinned hair whilst she did so. She examined her nails to check for cracks or smudges. The last time she had gone to that nail place they didn't dry them properly and her husband had not been pleased. It was worth checking now before he noticed them himself.

She looked over to him in the driver's seat. His suit was pristine black, his hair golden, his lion cufflinks sparkling in the reflection of the rain drops on the windshield's surface. He was smiling. That was a good sign.

He looked over to her and winked with his glassy, beady, blue eyes.

 "We've just got to make one stop before the restaurant," he leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. His thumb came up and roughly pinched the fleshy apple beneath her eye. "You're too pale."

She didn't flinch. She was used to this kind of rough handling from him.

 "Before we go in you should put on some blush. You look like a ghost," he continued. "Makes you look old."

 "As you wish," she sighed, pulling out a small engraved cigarette case from her purse. It had a beautiful wolf design - her father's.

 "Don't smoke in there car," he hissed. "You know I hate the smell."

 "I'm sorry, I forgot myself."

 "You shouldn't be smoking anyways, it's disgusting. Do you know what that cig'll do to you?" The car swerved and sped up, causing another driver to honk. "It'll kill you, that's what? Leave you with a hole in your esophagus the size of my fist, and your lungs drowning in thick black tar. Cover you from inside out!"

She sighed and put the cigarette case away. "You've made your point."

 "Have I? Have you sworn off all cigarettes forever and ever, so help you God?"

 "No," she rolled her eyes.

 "Then my point hasn't really been made, has it? I don't want you smoking in my presence - or ever! Makes you look cheap and taste foul. It'll age you. I'm saying this for your own good girlie. I'd rather you didn't die looking like a dried up husk." It would've been charming, his concern, if she knew it wasn't out of pure vanity that he valued her health at all. "That is my point," he finished, veering off into a new lane.

 "I will take it into consideration," she said curtly.

 "See that you do," he cupped her chin, roughly with three fingers. "You're a good wife." His tone was kind, yet tinged with ice. "Kiss me."

She brushed him off. "You're driving, don't be silly."

 "Is it silly for a man to ask for a kiss from his own wife?"

 "No, of course not, that's not what I meant."

 "Then what did you mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "I meant I'm not going to get us all killed while we're speeding down this highway in the middle of the pouring rain. There is low visibility as it is. I'll kiss you when we stop."

He suddenly pressed hard on the brakes in the middle of the highway, causing the car behind to veer screaming into the next lane, honking his horn incessantly.

 "What are you doing?"

  "We've stopped."

 "You can't stop here!"

 "I just did."

 "Start the car!"

 "Kiss me."

 "You are going to cause an accident you idiot, start the car!"

 "Hey!" he roughly grabbed her face and hoisted her towards him by her chin. "Don't give me any of your lip or I'll cut 'em off and feed them to you! Then you will wish you had given me a kiss when I had asked."

 "I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry, all right?"

 "That's better," he smiled and released her jaw, waiting expectantly. "Now, where's my kiss?"

She inhaled a deep breath, placing her hands affectionately on his collar, closing her eyes and leaning in to kiss him as lovingly and as tantalizingly as she could muster, given the circumstance.

She heard a snigger coming from the backseat and promptly broke away, returning to the mirror to fix her lipstick.

 "What a wife," he grinned, starting the car. "Don't you wish you had one, eh Tommy?"

There were three fellows sitting in the backseat, all wearing matching black suits with brilliant red sashes to match her husband. The youngest of them sat up, his matching golden hair glinting in the dim light.

 "Of course," he said with a boyish smile. "But none would ever be as pretty as yours."

This made him smile widely with smug satisfaction.

 "You hear that? Tommy just paid you a compliment. Maybe you should kiss him as well."

The other two sniggered with amusement. Poor Tommy boy blushed. "With all due respect, I'd rather not."

 "What? Her kisses aren't good enough for you now?" There was that iciness again, lying in wait.

 "Not at all. She's too pretty for the likes of me."

She smiled at him, leaning up and behind to gently peck him on the cheek. "You're a sweet baby brother, Tommy," she smiled softly.

 "Eh! Don't get too friendly!" he shouted, speeding on to the nearest exit and up the ramp. She sat back down and adjusted her lipstick. "Stop nitpicking, you look fine!" She held up her hands in surrender. "We're going to eat for god sakes! Not a fucking ball!" He spat stepping on the gas even more.

~~~~

The car pulled into a poorer residential area, screeching as it rounded the corner. It was quiet, not even a dog barking in the distance or wind whistling in the trees. They pulled up to the last house on this particular corner and the car came to a halting stop; the gear shifted, and the parking brake yanked up.

He looked back to his three guys in the backseat, giving them a knowing look "Be quick about it," he ordered. "I want to eat sometime before the night is over."

They got out of the car wordlessly and marched inside, adjusting their suits as they stalked up the shabby lawn to the sad looking little box house. She watched with a certain detached feeling she has become all to familiar with. God, she wanted a smoke.

 "This'll only be a minute," he muttered, looking over at her. She did not meet his gaze, only looked at her nails once more for imperfections. "Did that Eastern lady fuck up your nails again?" he hissed.

 "No, I gave her strict instructions to let the nails dry under the blower for an hour," she muttered.

 "Then why do you keep checking them?" He grabbed her hand and yanked it towards him, turning on the above car light. She let him, it was better that way. He meticulously scanned each finger before releasing her hand. "They're fine."

 "I was only concerned I might've chipped one when getting into the car," she explained. "I have some nail polish in my bag in case I need to do a touch up."

 "That's my girlie," he grinned, gently cupping her cheek. "Always prepared. Knowing I can't stand the sight of a crummy nail job while I'm eating."

 "I like to please you," she said demurely.

 "Do ya now?" he grinned a toothy, slimy grin at her. "Well, how's about you crawl over here and please me right now...on your hands and knees."

She was about to protest when a loud clang saved her from having to. The door to the small little house flew open and two black suits came out dragging some poor flailing soul with them. Little Tommy Boy trailed behind  blocking the poor man's dogs from escaping the house Her husband got out of the car and around to the pavement, looking smug once again.

 "Ello Dontos," he said, straightening the front of his jacket as he came to loom over the poor, portly, red-faced man. "You have my money?"

 "I, I have a deal...coming through any day now. I will have it for you Mr. Baratheon, I swear!"

 "Now, my sweet Dontos. You promised me full repayment for my generous contribution on this date. You gave me your word. You can't possibly mean to break your word, can you?"

 "No! No, I will have it! I will! Just give me a few more days. That's all I ask. I can get the money for you, every penny I promised!"

 "But we agreed today," he sighed disappointedly.

 "Just a few more days!"

 "Mr. Dontos...we were having a nice evening out, weren't we boys?" they nodded encouragingly. "I've got my wife looking all pretty and dolled up in the passenger seat of my car. She looks beautiful don't you think?" he yanked the man up on his knees to get a clear view of her sitting in the car. "I'm taking her out tonight to celebrate. I've just got me a restaurant, the best in town. You know how I came by it?" The man fervently and fearfully shook his head. "The last man who couldn't pay offered it up to me in replacement for the money he owed. The whole she-bang! The deed, the profits, more money than I could've ever received from him paying his debts. He was more than generous. Now Dontos, do you have something of value like that?"

The man started to cry, his face becoming slick with salt-water tears and trickles of saliva and snot. "No, Mr. Baratheon."

 "No!" he hissed. "Because you are a useless, piss ant, gambler with cheese for brains who has pissed away all my money!" he grabbed a glass beer bottle that was sitting on the front lawn of the man's house. With a violent smash the bottle shattered over poor Dontos' head, knocking the poor man to the ground.

 "Put him in the trunk, we're taking him for a ride," he said as he returned to the driver's seat of the car.

~~~~

She adjusted her lipstick once more in the mirror as the car stopped in front of the glamorous L'oiseau Moqueur, the grandest restaurant in the whole of King's Landing. Kings and queens, Saints and thieves all dined here alike. All served by the most experimental and revered of all chefs in Westeros, Madame Tyrell.

It had been owned by the Tyrell family for three decades, along with a beautiful winery in France known as Chateau Haute Jardin, which had been in the distinguished family name for centuries. That was, until Madame Tyrell's son, Mace, a foolish gambler and wealthy dimwit; the manager and owner of the beloved restaurant, lost the deed and ownership two months ago to the scheming and conniving hands of local businessman and underground gangster Tywin Lannister - who in turn gave it to his eldest grandson Joffrey Baratheon as a gift. Now it all belonged to him, and all would soon have to suffer under his violent outbursts, lacking social graces, constant thuggery, childish tantrums, and disparaging tastes. The Tyrell woman though was as tough as she was stubborn - though she allowed Joffrey and his guests, his friends and thugs, as well as his family to dine there and wreak as much havoc as long and as frequent as they liked, she demanded full control over her menu. Now Joffrey considered himself a gourmet.

She said nothing though, only lit a cigarette, rolling down the window so the smell wouldn't linger in the car, and let her mind wander to more pleasant things. Nothing too specific, general pleasant things, like sunshine and summer flowers, if she thought too long on the times when she had actually been truly happy she would only end up feeling more miserable, she had learned that a long time ago. Besides, there was no point in dwelling in things long dead and gone. She couldn't remember them the way she wanted to anyways - her father's musk; her mother's perfume; her brother's voice;  her sister's teasing - all ghosts to her now. Puppy's were nice though...a fine wine next to a fire, a good book on a rainy afternoon, the warmth of the beach, a cigarette after sex - these were the thoughts she drifted towards to drown out the sounds of poor Dontos' cries.

They'd stripped him bare in the street in front of the kitchen entrance to the restaurant The rain had ceased, and the pavement glistened from the street lamps all the way to the haloing green lights of the Moqueur.

In the alley behind the restaurant a pack of stray dogs sniffed and scampered about, eating the rotting left overs from the restaurants throw away bins, and defecating on the sidewalks. The smell was pungent with the stench of wet dog shit.

They had the man yanked out of the trunk, and face deep in one of the steaming wet brown piles. He continued to beg and whimper as they laughed and kicked at his torso.

Joffrey stood back watching, his hands deep in his pockets, a smile of pure satisfaction on his face as his men carried out his sadistic orders on the poor man. Tommy stood by him, watching with a serious look on his face.

 "Here," Joffrey leaned down and picked up a handful of dog excrement from the ground. His face wrinkling as the small wafted in between his eyes. "Ugh, what a smell. Give me your hand." Tommy gave him an incredulous look. "Give me your hand!" Joffrey forcefully grabbed the young boy's hand and opened the palm up to shove the sloppy brown substance inside. Tommy grimaced.

 "He looks thirsty don't you think?" Joffrey grinned cruelly, shaking off the remnants from his own hand. "Well go on. Give him a drink."

She flicked the cigarette ashes on to the ground. She should feel sorry for the man, in fact she did, no one deserves to go through this amount of humiliation and torment, she doubted his crime even warranted such a punishment - Joffrey never really was known for his mercy.  
She inhaled deeply, letting the small rush of nicotine to take her far away from this dingy alley, for even the briefest of moments.

When she came to, Dontos was on his back, being kicked. She flicked the ashes again, threw away the butt and adjusted her lipstick. Joffrey finally pulled his men off the poor naked Dontos and pulled out his silver pistol from inside his dinner jacket. "The Widow Maker" he called it as if it were a clever name.

 "I'll show you to lose my money on a foolish bet," he hissed between clenched teeth, aiming the gun at Dontos' forehead. The poor man was in tears, red-faced from the humiliation, his lip was swollen, cut and bleeding, his cheek was starting to swell, and his body shook from the dank cold. He was a sorry sight indeed. "Just goes to show," Joffrey continued. "Never trust a fool."

Her fist clenched until her hand turned Lily-white. This had gone on long enough. "Joffrey, don't kill him," she huffed, coming off more bored than concerned. "Let's go eat, I'm starving for God sakes. Let's not go through this today, it's supposed to be a celebration."

 "So?"

 "So it's bad luck to kill someone on your birthday. Bad karma or some shit like that. Besides it will ruin your suit and turn me off my appetite completely. Come on, he isn't worth killing, not today of all days."

That made him falter "Did you hear that? That's my beautiful wife, Sansa!"

She flinched at the sound of her name. She didn't like hearing it that much, not from him. It reminded her of all too many sad things; the girl she used to be, when she bore that name...that girl is long dead.  
She lit another cigarette.

 "What did I say about smoking?" he hollered, pocketing his gun.

 "I'm hungry, I need something to stave off the pains," she said matter-of-factly, dropping the cigarette, letting it smolder in a shallow puddle.

 "All right!" he cried. He leant down towards Dontos face. "You should thank your lucky stars for my beautiful wife, and her appetite. I'll give you three days to pay up what you owe me or believe me next time you won't be so lucky."  
He gave the man a swift kick to the stomach then spun around to the car.  "Leave him!"

He grumbled, bringing his hand up to smell it, instantly recoiling with a curse. "Alright, we're going to dinner, since you're so hungry! You drive!" he ordered one of his thugs. "I don't want to touch the steering wheel with my hand all covered in shit. Tommy, don't touch anything either, not until you've washed your hands!"

~~~~

The car was parked right near the entrance to the kitchen. There was two large meat and fish trucks parked near the loading bay doors to the kitchen. Three young men sat on one of the bumpers, blowing bubble gum bubbles and holding their windbreakers close against them.

 "What's this now?" muttered Joffrey as the car screeched into park.

 "Looks like delivery day," Sansa muttered, checking her hair one last time before opening her car door. God, that smell.

Joffrey got out of the car as well, now looking peeved.

 "Eh! What you laze-abouts think you're doing? Having a coffee break?" he barked at the young men sitting on the trucks.

 "She won't accept the delivery, says she didn't make the order," one lifted his head and shrugged holding the delivery order on a clipboard with no signature.

 "Of course she didn't, I did!" Joffrey hissed. "As a gift to the head chef of my new restaurant!" He snatched the clipboard from the younger man.

 "She says she don't take anything that she hasn't picked herself."

"Is everyone in this town so bleeding ungrateful," Joffrey spat, signing the clipboard and reaching in his pockets to pull out a wad of hundreds. "Leave the trucks here. Come! You and your associates can dine for all your wasted time."

The young man shrugged to the other two and they shrugged back, following Joffrey and his posse inside the building without another word.

The kitchen was large, green-hued, and ethereal. Stepping into the Moqueur's kitchen was like stepping into another world entirely. It felt like it went on forever, because of its arrangement and lighting. The ceiling felt non-existent because you couldn't tell where the wall ended and the ceiling began. It seemed impossible long, no matter where you stood. In a long row, line cooks, sous chefs, prep cooks, and waiters weaved in and out of narrow corridors between prep tables and steaming stoves and ovens. There was a brick oven in one corner where a hot fire blazed, baking loaves of fresh, handmade bread by the dozens. Through a darkened alcove on the other side of the room were two doors - one to an incredible pantry stocked with everything you could possibly imagine, and the other lead to a massive freezer where half carved cow carcasses hung in abundance, rings of sausages hung in strands and plucked birds of every size sat in waiting for their inevitable transformation.  
The moment you stepped from the outside world into this wonderland of culinary excellence your senses were assaulted on all sides,from the sight of a woman violently wrestling a chicken, to the pungent odour of freshly chopped onions hitting you square between the eyes, to the sound of a flawless falsetto drowning out the noise of the world. Sansa was drawn to the singing immediately, it was sad yet powerful. A young boy, one of the dishwashers, washed dishes into the echoey expanse that reached from the loading bay doors to the freezer and almost beyond the wide swinging doors that led to the dining hall. Joffrey stopped by the sink with the young boy and shoved him aside from the sink so he and Tommy could wash their hands in the soapy water. In another world Sansa would protest contaminating water meant for cleaning eating implements with hands currently smeared with dog shit, but at this point Sansa hadn't the strength to deal with Joffrey's temper.

 "Lenny!!" Joffrey barked, filling the room with his voice. He grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt and used his apron to wipe his hands. "Where's Olenna?" he demanded.

 "Upstairs," muttered one of the chefs.

 "Lenny!" he called again. "Where the fuck is that broad? Where is my favourite head chef? Lenny!!

 "She's plucking," another chef piped in.

 "Oh she's plucking. Well ain't that plucking fantastic," Joffrey sneered with a toothy grin. His thugs and Tommy laughed despite the joke not being all that funny or all that clever. Sansa did nothing.

Joffrey suddenly jolted up the narrow wood staircase to the open upper landing of the kitchen. Through the hazy light Sansa could see, what looked like large flakes of snow descending down in a slow cascade across a beam of yellow light, like snow across a lamplight on a winter's evening. Though it wasn't snow. As Sansa approached the almost romantic fall of white flakes she realized they were nothing but soft white duck feathers, no doubt being plucked off the hide of some poor defenseless creature with a broken neck, or even more likely, no neck at all. The whimsy Sansa had momentarily felt over the feathers quickly died as she remembered that nothing beautiful in this world came without its fair share of ugliness.

 "Lenny!" she heard Joffrey shout again.

 "Where the hell is she?" she heard Joffrey curse.

The upstairs had seemingly very little besides some empty crates and sacks of flour. There were some hay bales, as well as a light coming from behind a small curtained off area.

 "She should be like every other woman in this world and come when she is called," Joffrey hissed. "Come out you old bat, have a word with your most valuable patron. It's our anniversary don't you know, Lenny. Two months. That's what we're celebrating, two months of mutual understanding. I brought you a present!"

An older woman, proud in posture, wise in manner, and cultured with every nuance, stepped out from behind the curtain as poised as if she had just finished having tea with the Queen.  She stood, back straight, head held high, as rigid and fearless as a mountain.

 "Monsieur Baratheon," she answered him calmly.

 "Ah! There you are!" he bellowed with mock-cheerfulness. "Haven't you heard me screaming your name like a bitch in heat?"

Olenna barely flinched at his crude humour. "This is a duck," she held up the dead carcass of a half-plucked fowl. "Ducks are born with their feathers on, but tonight it is also your dinner. I suppose we could try the dish leaving the feathers as they are. What do you think?" Olenna swerved right around Joffrey with not so much as a tilt of the head, quickly waltzing down the narrow steps to the main floor.

Joffrey physically had to puff his chest out even more to adequately match her stature, following her like a nipping dog. A stronger man would wither at her ice blue stare.

 "What's this I hear about you not accepting my generous gift from these very kind lads," he hissed out each word with a thin layer of menace.

 "It was very gracious of you, but I only cook and serve meats and produce that I have hand picked. It is my way. That is how my family has cooked since the beginning of time. I told the boys to take their product to a shelter as a donation, for it will not be used here."

This made Joffrey's face turn a light red.

 "Those trucks are not going anywhere, not until you use up every scrap left in them. This is my restaurant now, and this is what I want from MY head chef."

 "I cannot accept," she said unflinchingly.

Joffrey's hand squeezed tightly into a fist at his side.

 "You will, or that meat will sit there until you do," he hissed.

 "Then we are at an impasse, Monsieur Baratheon."

Her eyes flitted over to Sansa standing in her pretty red dress.

 "This must be your beautiful wife," she smiled slightly at Sansa. "You have excellent taste."

That softened Joffrey a little bit. Madame Tyrell was a smart woman, she knew exactly how to word her compliments to flatter Joffrey as well as his wife. Sansa admired her greatly though hadn't the courage to acknowledge it.

Joffrey let out a long calming breath, his face returning to its normal colour.  
"I have another gift for you Lenny," his mouth formed into a grin. "Come...come!!" He nearly hopped like an excited child.  
Sansa felt a little wary, Joffrey only acted this excited when he was in the midst of some sort of cruel prank.

 "I have brought you our new sign!" he led Olenna over to where his goons had set up the neon letters. Lancel and Tommy were just behind them putting in a patch into the electrical system. "Your going to love it. L'oiseau Moqueur, though fancy, is such a bitch to say. No one wants to go to a restaurant they can't pronounce the name of. Alright, hit it boys!"

A switch was flipped, the signs blinked into neon life. It was in bright orange and blue. "The Lion and Boar."

Sansa thought the sign was ghastly, and Joffrey's laughter was cruel. Olenna stood unaffected. She didn't like it but there was only so many battles to be won with Joffrey Baratheon.

 "What do you think? It's a bit more welcoming to the public, don't you agree?" Joffrey chided Olenna with a sneer and an offensive elbow.

 "If you insist, Monsieur Baratheon," Olenna sighed.

Joffrey's gaze hardened. "I do."

All the sudden the lights on the sign began to flicker then the whole power system shut down, thrusting the entire restaurant into darkness. Cries of alarm could be heard all over the building.

Joffrey groaned and rolled his eyes. "For the love of god!!!" he bellowed. "What now?"

 "Must've overloaded the system," said Lancel.

 "Well, duh!" Joffrey spat.

Olenna didn't waste a beat before reaching into her apron and pulling out a lighter. She flicked it till a spark came, illuminating a small area around her. Sansa quickly caught on to Madame Olenna's idea and pulled her own lighter out of her purse holding it up to offer more light.

 "Well fantastic, finally a use for that cancer inducing fuel that won't kill you," Joffrey joked with a sharp edge in his tone.

Candles were soon found in one of the drawers. The waitstaff quickly entered with candles of their own for each of the tables in the dining area. Sansa helped light the few that came near to her. Olenna and her staff worked at lightning speed to light all the candles and light the kitchen decently enough for her and her cooks to continue making dinner.

 "Luckily, my stoves are gas," she said proudly. "I have always preferred the taste."

 "Of gas," Joffrey laughed.

  "Yes, it coaxes a better flavour out of the product whereas electric stoves add none," she said without even batting an eyelash. "I guess tonight's dinner will be served by romantic candlelight."

 "Oh yes, romantic until you find your elbow in the bowl of someone else's soup." Joffrey wasn't one for any romantic notion. Sansa was well aware.

 "Either way, it will have to do," Olenna came up to Sansa, ignoring Joffrey and his snide remarks to come and admire the quiet wife. "Come my darling," she said affectionately. "Your table awaits." She silently thanked Sansa for her help with the lighter and Sansa replied with a simple bow of her head.

 "Yes, can we eat, I'm fucking starving," Joffrey burst in between the two, roughly and possessively grabbing Sansa by the elbow and jerking her to the double wide swinging doors.

Just as they reached the doors the lights flickered back to life, causing a resounding cheer from around the restaurant.

 "Lothor must've fixed the breaker," Olenna blew out her candle, setting it down on a nearby prep table. "Just in time too," she stepped toward the couple, her gaze specifically aimed, in a pleasing manner, at Joffrey. "I have a great meal prepared for the both of you and all of your guests. To celebrate your birthday," Olenna continued.

 "Well then why don't you escort me and my lovely wife to our table," Joffrey said with a small sneer, grabbing Sansa's arm again and almost forcefully looping it in his.

Olenna bowed her head courteously. "Right this way."

Joffrey's small little sniveling mouth curled into an unpleasant smirk. He tugged Sansa alongside, pulling her into his side until their hips brushed as they followed the older woman to the dining hall.


	2. Thursday - The Look

The dining hall itself was as expansive as the kitchen; glittering from top to bottom in dazzling gold crowning, tasteful cherub nudes, and a great mural covering an entire wall. Tables end to end with bright white table cloths, black runners, and red napkins. The men wore black suits, the women wore white, the waiters wore red, and a live quartet sat in the corner playing a delicate ambiance to fill in the cracks between cutlery on china and clinking glass over the gentle hum of voices. In the middle of it all was a table set for ten, long and wide, waiting expectantly for its guests. Joffrey adjusted his red sash, almost lovingly fixed a hair on Tommy Boy's head before jabbing him roughly in the arm. He firmly grabbed Sansa's elbow and lead her to the table. He sat in the direct middle, directing where he wanted his party to sit. Sansa always to his left, Tommy to his right. Clegane right across from him, Lancel beside him. The delivery boys were delegated to one corner of the table away from the main party.

 "Waiter. Wine, arbor gold, three bottles," Joffrey hollered, after everyone was sorted. "Nothing but the fucking best."

Sansa was an expert at masking herself in a state of indifference. It was easier than looking at all the people trying to ignore Joffrey's loud and unpleasant talking. Her eyes focused on the beautiful mural. It was not very interesting, only one of a million paintings of men sitting around a table looking proud and regal; another tapestry of lies. Her eyes quickly turned to other distractions. The dress of an elegant woman sitting across the room, her left hand entwined with her companions, the other around the neck of a delicate champagne flute. She almost envied how effortlessly serene this stranger looked, like she hadn't a care in the world. Women like this irritated Sansa to the core; she looked away. 

Eyes. She suddenly breathed. That was the first thing she saw next. Eyes, soft eyes, slightly hooded, looking at her. It wasn't normal, most people did their best to ignore the loudmouth and his table, and if they did pay attention their eyes were never so kind. He sat at a small table near the kitchen doors. Two books piled up by his left hand, an open ledger by his right, his food barely touched in front of him. He was alone, all alone, like her. Maybe not in the literal sense; it was a feeling, deep down inside. He had no one, no family to go home to, no friends to invite. His only company was his three books and whatever voices he conjured up in his own mind. It was not this though, that captured her attention. It was the way he was looking at her - not with judgement, or scorn, or worst of them all pity. His eyes were green and grey, his hair as black as midnight with streaks of lightning white and grey at his temples, his suit a dark olive and well-tailored. His lips quirked to the right side of his face, rippling the neatly trimmed scruff on his face. Sansa enjoyed looking at him, and he in turn looked at her in such a way that she felt he could see her down to the very pit of her, staring directly into her soul. He knew her; he knew her pain. He was admiring her, not simply for being attractive, but for who she was; what she had suffered - what she continued to endure. His gaze, for the first time in a long time, made her feel beautiful.

She looked away, back at Joffrey. I'm being stupid, she thought. It was idiotic to think this stranger saw her as anything then a pretty accessory. That's what most of them thought, and he was no different then the rest of them. 

Before she could even process that they were moving her eyes were crawling back towards him - he was still there, still looking at her in that way. She could drown in that stare for a long time, she thought, mindlessly reaching into her purse for a smoke. Her hand was slapped before she could even get it to her mouth.

 "What did I say about smoking?" Joffrey hissed.

 "It's just a cigarette," she sighed. 

 "It'll kill you, I don't want you smoking anymore. Not at this table, not ever if I can help it," he tossed the cigarette away. 

 "Fine," Sansa sighed.  

 "Don't give me that or I'll send you home without a single bite," he growled.

 "I'm sorry Joffrey. I didn't even realize what I was doing," she tried to brush it off, but he grabbed her hand tightly and squeezed. 

 "Of course you didn't you stupid woman," he spat. "Go, wash your hands."

 "It's fine Joff, I barely touched them," she sighed. His palm came down and harshly slapped the tops of her hands, startling her. 

"Do as I say woman, or you can sit outside in the dog shit like a common whore and beg for a ride home!" The restaurant went momentarily silent at Joffrey's loud outburst.

Sansa bit her lip, swallowing down her hurt and fear; not wanting to give Joffrey the benefit of seeing her cry. She had no idea why she expected better treatment, Joffrey had always treated her this way. She was sure those kind eyes were now looking at her with nothing but pity and regret. For some reason that's what hurt most of all. Now no one cared. "I have to go anyway." She stood up, sucking back the feeling of tears, and the imperceptible waver in her voice.

 "You went before we left the house!" he cried incredulously.

 "I have to go again," Sansa said simply, trying not to argue with him.

 "You have the bladder of an old dog," Joffrey laughed. Tommy Boy, bless his soul gave a half-hearted laugh, then smiled apologetically at her when Joffrey's face had turned. "I tell you, no matter where we go, the first things she does is go to the bathroom. You better not be smoking in there!" 

 "No, I'm just going to the loo!" she cried.

 "Good!" he hollered.

Sansa fought to keep the embarrassment from her features. She would've liked nothing more than to have melted right into the mural, disappearing once and for all. She didn't dare chance a look over to the table with the man with the kind eyes . She'd feel even more foolish. Perhaps she'd only imagined it. No one, not even a stranger thought she was beautiful; she was tainted, tainted and ugly.

She ducked into the red velvet hallway that led to the pristine white bathrooms. As soon as she darted out of view of the dining area she leaned against the wall, slamming her eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. She can't cry, not here, not now, not tonight of all nights. She choked down every last drop of saltwater threatening to leak over and down her cheek; smearing her immaculate make up, puffing up her eyes and ruining her perfect ruby red lipstick. She steeled the tears, hardened them into anger and cooled the anger into numb indifference. Once she was ready she opened her eyes and began fishing through her purse to light herself a cigarette to calm the last residual shaking in her extremities. 

She heard the creak of a door just behind her. The air in the room changed distinctly, it became heavier, warmer.  
She chanced a look behind her and saw him. The man with the sad, kind eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her.  
Those eyes locked on hers. That same gaze. No pity, no disgust, just understanding and admiration. For now anyways.

She turned away, more afraid of that gaze than the hundreds in that dining room. She was used to their looks of dismay and discomfort. She could live those looks down, stand tall despite them. She could fight their perceptions, and be strong in the truth that they didn't know her, they didn't know what she has had to do to survive. But him...

Her hands shook as she fumbled around with her lighter, trying to get the damn thing to light. It flicked, it sputtered but no flame came, not enough to set a good enough fire to the end of her cigarette. God, she needed that cigarette or she was bound to do something foolish.  
A hand came around her to gently cup hers over the barrel of the lighter. His thumb gently caressed the knuckle of hers. Sansa froze. His warmth radiated off her back, she could feel his breath next to her ear. She couldn't move, she could barely breath, for surely it would shatter this dream.   
He said nothing, only gently pulled her thumb back steady till the flame flickered to life then released her hand, allowing her to bring it up to her mouth and light the cigarette dangling between her perfectly painted lips. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she inhaled the glorious toxins flooding her wracked system. Suddenly all the nerves dissipated, and she relaxed into the warmth behind her. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't breath a word as she only slightly leant against him, taking another long drag, her eyes closing in bliss. The red dim lighting of the hallway only added to the ecstasy of the moment. The world could end, she decided. The whole earth could freeze over right now and she would be happy, happy to spend a frozen eternity like this, with this man, this man she didn't even know the name of.

She opened her eyes. He was staring at her in utter fascination. He was so close; he smelt of pine, musk, and mint. His eyes were large and dark this close, and his face was even more handsome. From his perfectly trimmed beard to the grey at his temples - he was immaculate, he was beautiful, he was everything Joffrey never was. 

With a soft tilt of her head she offered him the cigarette with a gloved hand, watching him carefully as he looked at the smoking stick in her fingers then back to her eyes, shaking his head with a soft smile and wave of his hands, (so he shared one thing in common with Joffrey).   
She swallowed hard and took one last puff before pulling out of the pseudo-embrace they had shared, darting to a small ashtray sitting on a pedestal by the dinning hall entrance. The cigarette was snuffed out and she quickly darted into the bathroom, feeling flushed and disheveled, almost as if she had just finished with a secret tryst rather than simply enjoying a kin soul's body heat and a smoke.

What was she doing? She was being so foolish, childish even. Acting like a stupid teenager in a high school melodrama. She had lived that lie once before and look where it got her. She thought she knew better, she thought she had hardened her heart, locked away her trust, replacing it with caution and manipulation. But he bore right through it like a drill through sand, right to the very core of her.  
She hobbled on shaky legs over to the sink and moistened a hand towel under the tap bringing it to just under her ear on her nape. She could still feel the warmth of his body behind her, following her. She was being ridiculous, she cursed herself mentally. How foolish would she be to run into the arms of a nameless stranger all because his eyes made her feel...feel...something. God, she'd been so numb for so long she'd half forgotten what feelings were. Feelings did you no favor when you were the wife of Joffrey Baratheon. She has learned to bite her tongue and swallow her tears; she has learned to harden her skin, and to take the hits as they come. She has learned to expect it, to believe on some level she deserved it, that there was nothing else but this and that she could do nothing but accept it...until she saw a pair of eyes that told her differently. Yet she could do nothing. 

She tossed the damp cloth into the bin and took off her fascinator to fix her hair using a fine ivory comb from her purse. She reapplied her lipstick, cleaned up a smudge near the crease of her eyelid and checked her nails for cracks before washing her hands thoroughly with soap. She dried them carefully with another towel and then placed it all neatly back into her little bag. While she put her gloves on, her eyes drifted to the mirror, to her reflection. She looked tired, and old, old for twenty-five that is - but there was something - something she hasn't seen in a long while. More a ghost than anything; the ghost of a girl who had dreams and desires; could laugh and dance and sing; who believed that love would be kind and carry her through all life's hardships. A ghost of a smile crossed her lips as she felt that warmth around her once again, that minty musky smell, those eyes!

She heard the door open and her head darted towards the sound, a jolt running through her system as her precautionary nature kicked in. She immediately sighed in relief - she was safe - it was only him, walking in with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, a look of genuine concern in his brow (concern for her?). He took no more than three steps in, eyes locked on hers.  
She wanted so badly to say something to him but any words she could muster would ruin this spell between them. She was not ready for that; not just yet. He seemed to feel the same way. He looked around the off-puttingly stark white of the bathroom then back at her, shrugging almost bashfully, as if to say he didn't exactly know why he followed her in here. She smiled and gave a small shrug of her own, telling him that she didn't mind the intrusion.

God, the way he stared at her. She almost blushes as deep a red as the colour of her hair. He looked awed and breath-taken by her. She hadn't been looked at like this since...a very long time it felt.  All the more she couldn't stand it, her gloved hand coming up to hide her face. How ridiculous she must look, staring at him like she'd never been looked at before. She felt a gentle hand on her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. He was unbearably close now, his breath minty and mingling with her own lemon and ash. What was he thinking? She desperately wanted to know. Why did he stare at her like that? 

Her eyes locked on his, their faces now impossibly close, yet not touching. His lips were parted slightly, his breath heavy, his eyes dark and stormy. He wanted her. The realization struck a chord deep within her. She hasn't been wanted for a long time, and he wanted her scars and all. The thought warmed her, from head to toe, made her feel heady and short of breath. She wanted him too, if only because it would be lovely, just to be wanted and desired in reciprocation. Her free hand came and traced the side of his face, barely a graze; a touch. He melted into her. The warmth pooled and deepened low within her. It could be so easy...to forget it all and let him take her away. It would be so easy. Her hand dropped from his face. She gently smiled and extricated her wrist from his soft grip. His hands were only slightly callused at the fingertips, she could feel their dry edges as her skin slowly brushed over his. She didn't want to leave, but she had to. It was dangerous to play this game with this man, whoever he was. Gods, how she wanted to, he could offer her an escape...he was offering, that's why he was here, wasn't he? Maybe he was looking for an escape too. But it was too dangerous, if Joffrey were to find out or even suspect...she didn't even want to think about what he would do to her, or to him. It wasn't worth it. Her moment of happiness wouldn't be worth the pain.  
She squeezed his forearm in thanks and then returned to the mirror to fix her fascinator on her head, check her lipstick once more, then return to her table before Joffrey sent out a search party for her. She had to walk by him to the door, he didn't step out of the way, leaving her only a small gap between him and the wall. Their bodies brushed against each other as she walked around him to the door. She smelt that mint once again and nearly succumbed to the temptation, but she used all her will power to suck back the desire building in her heart.

The walk out of that bathroom and through the red hallway back into the dining room felt longer and heavier than such a short distance was warranted to. She could still feel him, watching; waiting...hoping. She sighed to herself, resigning herself to her fate; her decisions are what led her here and this is what she deserved...now, at least, she had something softer, and less painful to hold on to then her bittersweet memories. She would never forget those kind eyes.

Joffrey hollered with laughter and broke her from her reverie. She paused at the door leading from the hallway into the dining hall. He hadn't seen her yet, so engrossed in himself as he always was. She looked behind her. He was there, at the door to bathroom, still watching her. She couldn't help but smile - no one had made her smile for a long time. She blew him a kiss then ducked into the dining hall, steeling herself once again.   
She exhaled as she maneuvered around the tables, preparing what he was going to say to Joffrey once she reached him, how she would say it. She couldn't be too vague or Joffrey would know she was hiding something. 

As she maneuvered she found herself by the entrance to the kitchen - and across from it his table. The ledger was open to where he had left it, his appetizer untouched on its plate. It looked like (to her) that he had practically just got up and followed her into that hallway without a thought, without a care as to who would see or what they would think. He simply went for what he wanted. 

Sansa looked behind her - he hadn't come out of the hallway yet. Joffrey hadn't noticed her yet either. A curiosity struck her that she couldn't resist. With careful steps she approached the empty table. His napkin laid crumpled but otherwise unused next to his unused cutlery. She picked it up, it was silk cloth, a deep green. It had to be his own - the restaurants cloth napkins were either black or red. She held it up to her nose and inhaled. It smelt of him; musky and warm. She quickly tucked the kerchief into her purse, hoping no one was noticing the crazy person stealing napkins off tables. Her eyes and fingers skimmed over the ledger, it was nothing but numbers and figures that she didn't understand - his writing was neat, almost cursive, with perfectly shaped letters and delicate curves and lines. She picked up one of his books, they were heavy, and she doubted they were anything she would like, but that didn't stop her from opening the cover and scanning for a name, for a clue, anything. She found her answer - in that perfect cursive hand. "This book belongs to Petyr B."

Her lips curled into a smile. So that was his name. Petyr. She felt the name on her tongue, spoke it silently to herself, felt it roll in her mouth. It suited him, she decided. She was going to remember that name forever. She was replacing the book when she heard a cough and she launched herself upright, fear gripping her heart.

 "Lost your way, Mademoiselle?" Olenna Tyrell smiled at her in that soft, cultured way of hers. Sansa exhaled in relief.

 "Uh, no, Madame," Sansa smile shyly. "I believe it is clearer than ever."

Olenna's eyes sparkled knowingly, her lips pursing as she forced her face into neutrality.  
"Allow me to escort you back to yours. You can tell your husband I had toured you around the facilities."

 "It's not necessary Madame Tyrell, I was only in the loo."

Olenna smiled. "Another time then," she took Sansa's arm in hers, patting her hand gently. "You remind me of my grand-daughter, Sansa. If anything were to happen to my grand-daughter I would want her to know that she can come to me for any aid."

Sansa felt something in her flutter. Hopefulness, or perhaps wariness she couldn't tell. As they approached the table she was careful to mask herself with indifference once again, lest Joffrey notice the spark of life that had been reawakened in her. It was something all her own, and she was not going to let him take that from her just yet.

 "Sansa! Welcome back!" Joffrey greeted almost cheerfully. He was in good spirits now, that was good for her. "Look who has returned. What did you get lost on the way to powder your nose?" Joffrey sniggered with a mouth full of food. Of course, he'd started without her, Joffrey was never really one for decency.

 "That would be my fault, Monsieur Baratheon," Olenna piped up without a hint of hesitation. "Your lovely wife and I ran into each other in the bathroom, and took it upon myself to show her around the lesser seen areas of the restaurant."

Sansa said nothing, only nodded in agreement with Olenna's tale and took her place next to Joffrey. A bright polished silver dome covered her plate, keeping whatever lied underneath warm.

 "Well, what did you think?" Joffrey asked pointedly. She could feel his stare on her.

 "It was very interesting," Sansa said as easily as she could manage.

 "What did she show you?" Joffrey's stare narrowed even more.

 "I took her to..." Olenna started.

 "I didn't ask you. I asked my lovely wife. What did you see?"

Sansa swallowed her nerves, relaxed her face and met his pointed stare looking as casual as she could.

 "I was curious to see the inside of the pantry in the kitchen. Madame Tyrell offered to show it to me and I accepted. It was beautiful, as I suspected. And larger than I imagined. I particularly enjoyed the way the strings of sausage dangled from the ceiling."

Joffrey stared at her in an almost pregnant pause as he processed her response. Sansa's breath caught, fearing he might not believe her. Suddenly he started to laugh, loudly.  
 "That's my wife," he stated almost proudly. "She always did love a well-hung sausage!"

The whole table erupted into laughter. Sansa feigned a small smile and willed herself not to feel embarrassed by Joffrey's joke. He believed her, and that's all that mattered.

The issue of Sansa's whereabouts cast aside, the table returned to their meal with Joffrey heading up the conversation in his usual poncy fashion. Pretending to be a well-travelled food connoisseur was a rather thin and weak veneer on a man like Joffrey. Every inch of him oozed with his true lack of understanding of the concept of the art of food; the more he talked the more painfully obvious he got. No one said anything. Especially Tommy, the sweet boy hung on his brother's every word as if it were prophecy. Smiling in awe, nodding in bewilderment, filling Joffrey in with the proper prompts, the right questions, the perfect misunderstanding to further bolster Joffrey's ego. It was an act, an act Tommy boy was the master of. No one questioned the sweet naive little brother of pandering to his older brothers antics, all they saw was adoration. Sansa was grateful, it meant less work for her.

Olenna, always the proper head chef, stood by, waiting to serve the next course.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa could see the man (Petyr) weaving through the tables like an elegant bird. He was so handsome, she noted. Not too tall, yet he had a captivating profile. Long and proportioned, his tailored suit made him look sweepingly dramatic from toe to tip. She missed looking at him, even when she looked away for a second, she found she yearned to look at him again. 

He'd made his way to his table, taking his seat before finally looking up, his eyes immediately finding hers. Her breath caught. So did his. She smiled, very subtly, but she knew he would see it. The left corner of his mouth twitched upwards in return. 

A hand waved in front of her eyes, startling her.

"Hello! Earth to Sansa!"

 "What Joffrey?" Sansa appeared to sound casual.

 "What you staring at?" he leaned his head over to see what she was seeing.

 "Nothing, just a thought, it was nothing," Sansa waved off, immediately going to her dinner plate and lifting off the cover.

 "That's for you," Joffrey muttered snidely. "Lenny thought I might like to taste it. Personal compliments of the the chef. Eat it, I didn't fancy it. Smelt off."

Sansa looked over to Olenna who stood stoically by the table. She'd heard every word, she knew Joffrey was bashing her food but you wouldn't have been able to tell by looking at her. Sansa smiled apologetically. She was sure it was delicious; Joffrey couldn't help making a snub remark to puff up his own authority.

Sansa said nothing to Joffrey and picked up her knife and fork. She cut off a delicate piece, with a small spattering of the sauce, being careful not to eat too much at once, or dribble all over herself. Joffrey hated it when she ate sloppily. 

Her eyes drifted upwards again. To him. He had a dome of his own. He smirked at her and lifted up the dome for her to see. He had received the same dish. 

Sansa took another delicate sample of her dish, her eyes never leaving his as she brought it to her mouth and ate it slowly, delicately, just enough to be enticing while not making Joffrey suspicious. He watched her, utterly entranced, taking his own bite of food, unsuccessfully slopping a bit of sauce down his chin into his beard.  Sansa wanted to laugh, but refrained. Letting him see the amusement in her eyes. He didn't miss a second though, bringing his thumb to gently swipe up the streak of hollandaise and bring it to his mouth, sucking the tip slowly. Something in Sansa churned. She wanted to taste that thumb, more than she wanted to eat the food on her plate. She was hungry for that digit in the worst way possible. She brought a finger down to her own plate of hollandaise, lightly dipped her index into the sumptuous sauce, and slowly licked it off her finger for him to see. She saw his throat bob, his tongue unconsciously licked his own lips. Another delicacy she yearned for a taste of.

 "We really should invite Margaery next time," she heard Tommy Boy say in his soft sweet voice.

 "There's a thought," Joffrey chirped. "It would be a treat to see her in something other than those mourning cloaks."

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. It was no secret that the beautiful Margaery, Joffrey's recently deceased uncle's widow, was a desirable woman. Barely older than Sansa, it was no secret she had kept herself a virgin for her prestigious and advantageous marriage to the future leader of the free world, multi-million inheriting, trust fund golden boy, Renly Baratheon. It was also no secret that Renly had less interest in his highly desirable, politically pleasing new wife, and more interest in her golden-haired brother. Beautiful Margaery had married a virgin, and was widowed a virgin. Making her every man's favourite meal ticket. She was, of course, the queen of all graces and manners, and waited the appropriate amount of time for grieving the sudden loss of her shining star husband. Joffrey was none-too-subtle about voicing his opinions about his young former "aunt". Not that Sansa minded though, she often fantasized about Joffrey starting an extra-marital affair and running off with a more beautiful, more vivacious, and certainly more fertile trophy wife and leaving her with absolutely nothing so she would have to get a job at a little bookstore downtown and sleep on the sacks of flour at the back of Olenna's kitchen. A nightmare for most, nothing but sweet bliss for Sansa.

 "Margaery always knows how to bring the party. My uncle never deserved her," Joffrey spat. Now Sansa was annoyed. Joffrey was far from a valiant knight, and knew nothing about treating people the way they deserved. It was pure irony coming out of his lips. 

 "She's a good dancer too," Tommy nodded, with a boyish grin. Sansa smiled slightly. Sweet Tommy Boy.

Joffrey smacked his brother in the shoulder, almost affectionately. "You've got a good eye. Did I ever tell you about the Flea Bottom dancer?" Tommy shook his head. "Great dancer, and stripper, she jiggled in all the right places, had an ass you just wanted to slap. She was a star," the table coaxed Joffrey to continue. Sansa took the opportunity to look back at her beautiful stranger. She could tell he was listening. She could see his thinly veiled disgust, not at her though, at Joffrey. She wanted to kiss his whitening fist, and every dent his fingernails were digging into his palm. 

"The ass was the real showstopper, and she used it to her full advantage. This ass was framable!" Joffrey smirked and took a bite of food then continued. "Well, one night, her old clunker of a car breaks down after the show, so I calls a mechanic for her."

Sansa was only half listening at this point. She wanted to be so far away from this table she practically could have floated away on will alone. Why hadn't she seized that moment in the bathroom when she'd had the chance?

 "The mechanic cleans the car up real nice, replaces the battery. She's so grateful for the help she's willing to...give a little extra thanks." Joffrey's grin is repulsively skeevy, but Sansa could hardly care. It's not the first time he's received a blow job from a hooker during their marriage and it certainly won't be the last. "Unbeknownst to her, that while she bobs up and down on 'im the old battery in his hands falls out of his grip and splashes all over the ground. Battery acid goes spilling everywhere.  Burns her nape to cheeks. She went screaming down the road with her back hissing!" Joffrey laughs, the men around the table laugh as well, albeit a tad uneasily. "Never been the same since. She still strips the same, but now never with her back to the audience."

Tommy, bless his little soul, makes a small laugh and nod, as though it were a clever conclusion to a long winded joke. Joffrey sat looking all the more smug. Sansa suddenly felt a wave of disgust that she had always been able to squelch when it came to Joffrey and his sick stories. She was done with this...she was better than this. And by God, she was going to get it.

 "She's had to change the act though, now it's more full-frontal..." Joffrey continued to blather away and Sansa hit her tipping point, dropping her fork on the plate, her appetite for food now fully gone. She launched to her feet, not giving a damn what Joffrey thought.

 "Where you going?" Joffrey hollered.

 "I forgot my lighter in the bathroom," she muttered."

 "Oh for gods sake, Sansa, you don't need it!" Joffrey groaned.

 "I need it!" she barked back at him, heading straight for that tiny red hallway.

 "Jeez," Joffrey sneered. "That woman. Hey Lenny! It's going up tomorrow! No smoking! No smoking signs everywhere. What are we barbarians?"

 "Oui, Monsieur."

Joffrey was so busy railing on about his new restaurant policies, including that the waitstaff should act "more French", he did not notice the quiet man in the dark green suit stand and weave his way around the tables to the little red hallway, following his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot, bothered, and a tiny bit annoyed at how obnoxious Joffrey is. That was the desired effect. Did it come across?


	3. Thursday - The Encounter

Sansa was waiting for him in the vestibule, her hands shaking, her back pressed up against the wall. She didn't know why she was here, or what she was doing, she only knew that she had to do it. The moment he closed the door behind him he paused, taking in the sight of her. She yearned for his gaze; adoring the feel of his admiration on her skin. She wanted to feel more of him on her skin.  
He began to walk slowly toward her, his eyes on hers as he got closer and closer until he was barely a foot away. She inhaled his scent, the warm minty musk. The air around them was thick, and Sansa felt hot, despite how light her dress was. Those grey green eyes looked at her, then down to her mouth, he was waiting...waiting for her decision. 

Sansa's dress was designed for easy access. Something Joffrey picked out for her - almost as red as the hallway - the fabric was low cut on both ends, and had two flaps that came around the middle like a vest that secured to one side.

Sansa didn't hesitate to touch him. Her hands coming to his chest and drifting downwards. He was lean, she could feel the contours of his chest and the soft muscles around his belly through his clothes. Her hands stopped before his belt, reaching one of them down to his warm hand, clasping it gently. He had clean hands, perfectly manicured fingernails, small ink stains on the pad of his thumb and index, and the slight callouses that came from holding a pen for hours on end. She wanted to feel these hands on her. These hands that have never hurt a soul in their life. Sansa brought his hand up to her chest, weaving it underneath the fabric of her dress and over the centre of her breast. Her own fingers slipped from his as he quickly caught on to her wants and gently cupped her breast through her thin lace bra. Her hand came around to his wrist, gently guiding his motions, hoping he could feel the way her heart thrummed underneath his fingertips. His eyes never left hers, even as he began to knead. Sansa leaned her body against the wall, taking in the sensation of his soft touch on her breast, enjoying the slight pull around her nipple; and then his eyes! They took her in hungrily and she basked in the attention.

The door from the men's bathroom opened suddenly and Petyr stepped away from her so fast, it nearly felt like he'd ripped her heart out of her chest. Sansa quickly righted herself and fixed her dress. The pair of them stood still, trying to look like casual acquaintances having a quiet chat, rather than two people doing...what they were doing. Luckily the man who stepped out of the bathroom barely acknowledged then as he strode to the door and walked out. Sansa looked at Petyr knowingly, they couldn't continue this here.

She saw his head tilt towards the "Ladies" sign dangling over the door to the pristine white bathroom this whole affair seemed to start in. She nodded her head in agreement. He straightened his suit, looked around cautiously before slowly making his way over to the bathroom door. Sansa matched his slow, casual pace and followed right after. He held the door open for her, she gave him a small smile in thanks. As she walked by him though, she couldn't resist brushing her hand against his chest and clasping one of his hands in hers, pulling him behind her into the stark white porcelain world that was to be the setting for their encounter. Sansa looked around, feeling suddenly shy, not knowing where to begin, then her eyes came up to the stalls, she looked up at Petyr, he'd had the same thought as well. Her grip on his hand tightened as they hurried into one of the stalls, locked the bolt, and before she could even comprehend his lips were on hers.

The kiss was soft, hot, and drenched with longing. Her hands immediately went to those magnificent lightning streak at his temples, ruffling the thick hair between each of her fingers. One arm came around her for support as the other returned to its place on her breast, pressing and squeezing with more fervor than before. She moved to help him pry open the ties on the sides of her dress so that the top of it opened wide, revealing the black see-through lace bra underneath. His mouth left hers, trailing down her neck, over her collarbone to right over the nipple of her right breast, kissing it through the fabric. She arched into his mouth, as he lavished her with such gentle attention. She hadn't realized how desperately she wanted to be desired until she saw it in his eyes. She needed this more than she needed air.  
Her arms came around his shoulders for support as he began to suck. She leaned over him to suckle his ear simultaneously, feeling his mouth surge on her nipple as her lips captured the tender lobe.   
They were both soundless in their ministrations, though their passion was as loud as music. A slow drone of haunting strings and horns, heralding their joint desire combining into one.

She loved him, she had no idea who he was but she loved him all the same. Especially when his head ducked to the otherwise of her chest to lovingly suckle the left breast, and she heard him hum into the soft flesh, she knew he felt the same. 

Sansa furiously reached underneath the hem of his green suit jacket and gripped a fistful of his shirt in her hand, yanking up, pulling it out of his trousers. She wanted to feel him, all of him.

Like thunder, the sound of the door to the toilet opening cracked over them like cold water. They broke apart. Fear gripped her heart for the briefest of moments, until she heard the click of a woman's heels on the white tiled floor. She exhaled in relief, looking towards Petyr. He looked relieved as well, before looking at the small space under the stall door and his own feet. Quickly, and quietly, he stepped onto the seat of the toilet, hunching over so his head didn't peek over the top of the the stall. Sansa took the time to carefully remove the top of her dress, slipping her arms through the holes so that the dress merely dropped down, leaving her bare save for her bra. Petyr was staring at her admiringly as she turned to face him. His hands were on his belt, beginning to undo the buckle, but she found herself stopping him. She was struck with an idea, having his crotch nearly eye level with her - something she never thought she'd be willing to do. She smiled at him coyly, looking up into his green eyes as she began to deftly pry his belt apart. His hand came to her shoulder, squeezing it until she looked at him again. A look of concern on his face. She didn't have to do this if she didn't want to, was what it told her. It made her want to do it all the more, for no other reason than he had given her the choice to. He had no idea how erotic that was for her. After so many years of having her life doled out for her, every decision and choice snatched up in front of her like candy by a greedy child - from where she went, to what she wore; he was finally giving her what she wanted. Control.

She got his trousers undone, quickly and quietly. She still had one ear out of the stall, listening for the other woman in the bathroom, as she was sure Petyr was. She got her hand around the waist band of his briefs when he lent down once more to protest. She lifted her hand up to his lips, silencing the protest before it began. She wanted to do this, she was going to do this. His shirt tails almost acted like an umbrella, sheltering her from whatever gods might be looking down on her, as she pulled his underwear down just enough so that she could see his cock, growing stiff, a perfect size and girth. Better than Joffrey's. In her eyes it looked delectable, as was the delicate skin of his abdomen right above it, and the pale, barely haired thighs around it. She pressed a soft kiss below his belly button, leaving a red lip stain from her lipstick on his stomach. She smiled at it appreciatively, before leaving another stain on his thigh. She wanted him to look at those stains later and think of her.  
She kissed the sides all the way up to the tip. His fingers lightly grazed her shoulders, she felt the coolness of the ring on his pinky finger. He yearned to lace his fingers in her hair but he knew he couldn't, not here, so he settled for resting them gently on the sides of her head, gently guiding her movements as her mouth covered the tip of him. He was silent but she could feel his pleasure rumble through him. Her hands braced themselves on his thighs, clenching then gently, being careful not to break her nails by trying to dig them into his flesh. 

It didn't last long - her bobbing over him. It wasn't a few minutes after she took him into her mouth that the other woman finished powdering her nose, picked up her purse from the sink and left in a fading trail of heel clicks, and one last thunderous thud of the door. 

His hand caressed her face before cupping, gently coaxing her off his cock and towards his face for a kiss that was almost blindingly passionate. Her arms slid upwards from his thighs, over his taut stomach to wrap around his shoulders. She yearned to melt into him, to be fully embraced by his warmth, that smell, those eyes. He gingerly stepped off the toilet, his hands on her sides, forehead pressed against hers, even as their lips broke contact. His trousers were now down about his ankles, his briefs to his knees, his cock bobbing between them. Sansa flipped her skirt up and gracefully slid her lacy black thong down to the floor, stepping through it one heel after the other, and discarding it on the floor. Petyr stroked the bare flesh of her sides, his thumb dipping under the black garter she wore, not bothering to remove. When she was done with her underwear he pulled her close to him and kissed her passionately, hoisting one of her stocking and heel clad legs over his hip, bringing her centre in line with his cock. She was pressed against the cool white metal of the bathroom stall, the sting of the chill a pleasant counter balance to her overheated body. Petyr was everywhere. Pressed so close to her he invaded every sense. The feel of his cock rubbing against the most intimate part of her, sliding and prodding, asking for permission to proceed, permission it didn't need. She wrapped herself around him and reached to take a firm hold of his buttocks, surging him forward into her. His hands lifted under to hoist her on to him, using the wall as leverage, and with one swift heave he was inside her. A heated gasp left her mouth which he captured in his. Her hands were in his hair then, wrapped in the lightning on his temples. Another hoist and heave, he glided softly inside her - soundless, wordless - save for the small hiss at the back of his throat; the barely audible squelch between her legs. He kissed her firmly, lovingly on the lips, down her neck till he took her breast into his mouth once again and sucked in time to his third thrust. Sansa was fully wrapped around him, from the inside out; her arms and legs wound around him like ivy on a column. There was barely a hair's breadth between them; the tempo was jagged; lacking rhythm but not lacking friction. Another soundless gasp against his temple, another inch closer. A noise, very small, but loud enough for her to hear, escaped his mouth on the next press. She could've laughed - she'd never heard this man speak, she knew absolutely nothing about him except his name, and even that was an assumption - yet she knew he loved her. You only held someone like this when you loved them. It seemed an incredibly naive notion, especially after all she's been through in life, but it didn't matter, this moment was hers to dictate. So when his mouth searched for hers again she met it willingly, with as much love she could return - love that had been long neglected, lying in wait for him. She wished this moment would never end. 

As a crack of thunder disturbs a quiet evening, so did Joffrey. The door screeched open in warning - Joffrey came shortly afterwards.

 "Sansa!" He shouted. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

The bathroom door shut behind him, and all that could be heard was the dull thuds of his soft leather shoes on the blinding white floor.  
Sansa froze, still clinging to Petyr, forgetting that he was still buried to the hilt in her. His grip on her waist tightened protectively, while she held the lapels of his coat in a tight fist. A sinking dread filled her from top to bottom, as the footsteps came closer. She jumped at the sound of the metal door, three stalls over, slamming open.

 "You've been in here for ages!" Joffrey hissed. "What are you doing, having a baby?"

Petyr stepped away from her quickly, leaving her empty - though she barely noticed, still in the grips of fear. On automatic she redressed herself, pulling down her skirt and refastening the front of her dress. Petyr climbed up into the seat of the toilet and did up his trousers, as deftly as a shadow. 

Another door slammed open, right next to them and Sansa quickly sat down on the toilet in between Petyr's knees. Her shaking hands reaching for her purse, abandoned on the floor during their encounter. "I'm...I'm just...having a quiet smoke." She pulled out the pack of cigarettes and attempted to light one as quickly and as quietly as she could. "I know you don't like it when I smoke at the table."

 "Oh for god's sakes Sansa!" he growled. She could see his feet at the through the opening at the bottom of the stall. She jumped a little when his fist knocked against her door. "You lied to me, you said you'd lost your lighter."

 "I didn't lie," she cried, sucking back a drag to control the shake in her voice. "I left it on the sink, in front of the mirror. I didn't want to bother you so I decided to have a quick smoke in here, then I'd wash my hands and be back at the table. That's all." She felt Petyr's hands come to rest comfortably on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She leaned imperceptibly into his body heat. "I'll be done soon, you shouldn't wait about the ladies, Joffrey, you'll only embarrass the customers," Sansa took anther drag, praying that Joffrey would leave, praying that he would believe her, if only this once.

 "Show me the lighter," Joffrey hissed.

Sansa leaned down and skidded the lighter under the gap. "Do you want a smoke?" she asked, almost immediately regretting it.

"Don't be so bloody stupid, Sansa."

 "It was a joke, Joffrey."

 "It wasn't funny," he sneered. Then he laughed. "Are you playing with yourself in there?" Sansa felt her whole body go tense. Petyr's arms came even more protectively around her. "Sansa," he clucked his tongue. "You know that's my property. I'm the only one allowed to play with it, no one else. Not even you," Sansa could tell he was being his own sick twisted version of playful. That didn't stop the fear from coiling around in her gut. Joffrey could go from playful to brutal in under a second if he felt like it.

 "Joffrey, please, shut up," Sansa tried to sound playful as well, or at the very least embarrassed.

 "Come on let me in, I'll teach you how to wipe yourself," he laughed cruelly and Sansa shuddered.

 "Go away Joffrey, I'll be out in a minute!"

 "Don't be long," his feet finally disappeared from the gap as his footfalls began heading towards the door. "I've ordered you some dessert, being the loving husband that I am. Some lemon cakes because I know how much you like them. Lenny assures me she makes some of the best." 

 "Thank you, Joffrey."

 "And wash your hands," he barked. "You can never be sure the type of women who use this place. 

With that the door swung open and thundered closed. Taking Joffrey with it.

Sansa released a sigh of relief, her hand coming up to her mouth to smother a son of fear. She couldn't cry, she couldn't break. She'd survived. They'd survived. His arms came around her comfortingly and he kissed the nape of her neck with such tenderness, she could feel her tense muscles relax underneath them.

It had been close, too close. But it had been worth it, she decided. Standing up, feeling suddenly invigorated, she shook off the last remaining nerves and turned to Petyr. He'd climbed off the toilet and was smoothing out the wrinkles in his trousers. She smiled at him, reaching towards him to help him tuck his shirt back in his pants, taking the last opportunity to feel the contours of his beautiful body underneath her hands.  His grey eyes met hers and he suddenly leaned down and kissed her softly, cradling her head in his hands. She savoured his taste once more, before pulling back, wary of Joffrey coming back in case she took too long. He would not be so playful the second time.  
She pulled back from the kiss and smiled at him with all the adoration in her heart and he returned the smile with one of his own. It was lopsided, favouring the left side of his face, making him look all the more handsome. One last soft peck on the lips. She looked down and saw her underwear hiding behind the seat of the toilet and she nearly laughed, reaching down to pick it up. With a coy smile she held it up for him and neatly tucked it into his suit jacket pocket, her free hand gently reaching down to cup him through his trousers, he was still hard. She smiled again. She had no idea what had made her so bold.  
He was about to mutter something to her but she stopped him before he could utter a single word. Perhaps to tell her what his name was. The thought was almost laughable. She didn't need it, she needed no explanation or apology or declaration. She needed no words from him.   
She kissed him and that was that.   
He silently thanked her for his gift as he fixed a stray hair on her head, then leaned over and with a grin pulled the handle for the toilet, causing it to flush. Sansa nearly laughed. It was unnecessary, but still, a fine touch on the end of this strange encounter of theirs.   
She unlocked the latch and carefully stepped out of the stall, heading towards the sink. Petyr quietly following a few steps behind. She didn't see Joffrey leaning against stall at the end, lying in wait.

 "You took your time," he said darkly.

Sansa jumped and gasped. From where Joffrey was he couldn't see Petyr, and didn't see him retreat silently back into the stall and back into the top of the toilet. 

 "I thought you'd like me to wait for you,” Joffrey continued, taking a step towards Sansa. She was frozen with fear. What did he hear? Did he hear anything? Did he see anything?

 "Yes, but outside the lavatory, like a normal human being," she said with as much gumption as she could muster.

 "You smell nice and sweaty," Joffrey grinned. Sansa couldn't tell if he was being playful or warming her up for something completely more terrifying.

 "It's hot in this restaurant, don't you find it hot?"

Joffrey grinned toothily. "Wash your hands, my love, and I'll give you a kiss," he leaned in close. He smelt musty and sour. Like he was rotting on the inside.

He followed her to the sinks, too close, a hand around her, hovering over her. He was oppressive, even though he was just standing there.  
She turned to wash her hands and he pressed himself against her backside, his ground against her bottom. He placed a too wet kiss on her neck and the exposed skin of her shoulders.  
He must think he's being romantic, she thought, being careful not to look too repulsed by Joffrey's smothering attentions. 

 "Do you know what they say about men who hang about ladies lavatories?" she said with a face of pure steel, as she vainly attempted to fix her fascinator on her head.

When she turned she had vaguely hoped he would step away and give her some room, but he only invaded her more. Gyrating obscenely against her hips, his thin little lips on her neck. He laughed, his his smug behind their hooded eyelids.

 "What do they say about men who hang about ladies lavatories?"

Another bout of obscene little thrusts against her, some fabric pushed aside for him to worm a hand inside and roughly fondle and deliver a biting kiss. Sansa gracefully tried to keep him at bay, despite how he kept pulling her towards him.

 "They're asking to have their illusions shattered," she said, her tone like ice. Joffrey was barely listening as he continued his weak and self-serving seduction.

 "Oh yeah," he muttered into her skin.

Sansa looked over, feeling embarrassed should anyone walk in on them. It was not someone else's eyes she caught, but Petyr's peering through the crack in the door of the stall. She could see his face plainly. It was dark, his jaw clenched and his eyes threatening. He glared in this dark matter at her husband's back. Wishing death upon him. She found courage in him, despite Joffrey's clawing hands and insipid little licks along her throat.

 "No illusions shattered over you, eh Sansa," Joffrey hissed, finally pulling back. "No stones been left unturned," he grinned and kissed her full on the lips, his flavour cold and lacking any depth of feeling. Cold, hard possession, that was all Joffrey could feel. He thrusted a bit harsher against her hip and she felt his hand on her thigh sliding up. Sansa felt a sudden strike of panic run through her. She couldn't have him discover her without her underwear. She quickly shoved him off.

 "Not here, Joffrey please," she tried to seem coy, instead of disgusted and afraid. "Wait till we get home. You said you ordered lemon cakes." She turned and fixed her fascinator and her lipstick one last time in the mirror while Joffrey collected himself.

 "I haven't yet, I was going to."

 "Well then, order us some, I'll feed them to you," she turned and gave him her best seductive smile. "I'll let you lick the lemon filling off my fingers."

That made Joffrey grin smugly and his chest puff up. "You know how to treat a man on his birthday, my darling."

 "And when we get home, after all those lemon cakes... I might just be in the mood," she took his arm in hers and began leading him out of the bathroom, away from Petyr.

"You dirty slut," Joffrey grinned.

 "Only for you," she said in a practiced cutesie voice that was as far from her true self as she could get. The real Sansa, tonight, will turn off the lights, close he eyes, and imagine a pair of grey-green eyes as a cock moved between her legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get a glass of wine and listen to Michael Nyman's Fish Beach while reading this Chapter. It will help :P  
> I kind of ripped this scene directly from the movie because everything about it is so excruciatingly captivating, I even stole the dialogue. I have no shame!  
> Both myself, the reader, and Petyr now have blue balls thanks to Joffrey.


	4. Friday ~ The Affair

~~~~Friday~~~~

Joffrey informed her they were going out to eat again.

That evening, Sansa dressed in a white crepe and lace dress, to better fit the aesthetic of the Moqueur’s dining hall. All the ladies seemed to be wearing white, and her in her red dress and red hair had stuck out like a bloody red wine stain on a white tablecloth.

No, tonight, tonight she would be dressed like any one of them.

“Are you ready to go yet?” Joffrey hollered by the door.

“One minute, Joff, I’m just putting my lipstick on,” Sansa hurriedly unfurled the tube of deep merlot stain, a matte lipstick that would neither come off on one’s glass, or on one's lover’s cheek.

“That’s a new shade,” Joffrey leaned against the doorframe, tugging on the ends of his lapels.

“I thought the bright red with this dress made it look cheap,” she expertly outlined the edges of her lips with a pencil before filling in with the Burgundy paint.

“My girlie,” Joffrey clucked. “Always looking the part.” He pushed away from the doorframe and quietly stalked the length of their bedroom, coming to stand behind her. His cold, clammy hands caressed the back of her neck until goosebumps spread from her nape to the back of her arms. “If only they realized how easily bought you are.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and lifted her eyes to stare at his through the reflection in the mirror. His gaze was teasing and smug; her own, emotionless steel.

Joffrey leaned down, one hand coming to lay over one of her breasts, carelessly fondling; the other beside her face, the thumb pressing into her cheek, pushing her closer to him. All the while, their eyes remained locked in the mirror. Joffrey dipped his head as though to kiss her lips, but stalled, noting the freshly painted colour. Changing his course, his cold, thin lips pressed into her pale cheek and he released both of his hands from her body.

“Hurry up, love,” he stood at his full height, adjusting his coat again. “We have a few stops to make before the restaurant.”

Sansa twisted in her seat to face him. “Where?”

“I invited a few more guests this evening. We’re having an affair,” Joffrey chuckled to himself.

Sansa’s blood ran cold. “A what?”

Joffrey laughed even more. “You should see your face now, Sans, look like you’ve seen death itself. My, my wifey, you don’t think I would be stepping out on you, would ya?”

Sansa swallowed back her fear, hiding it behind indignation. “Of course not, Joffrey,” she turned back to the mirror, applying more blush to her cheeks.

“Wouldn’t be none of your business if I were anyway,” he hissed, his tone turned biting. “What would you do about it?”

“I don’t know Joffrey.”

“Have one yourself?”

Sansa nearly hiccuped. The brush in her hand held still metres from her face, shaking imperceptibly, the powder falling on the white marble vanity in faint pink wafts.

“You can’t do that,” Joffrey continued. “I’d kill you, you know that. I’d kill him first and then I’d kill you. I’d kill him right in front of you, because I love you, you know. I’d only do that because I love you. If you were to betray me like that, I’d have to kill you. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? Not you, Sans, not my girlie,” the earnest tone of his voice was enough to convey sincerity. What Sansa couldn’t tell was if this was an avowal or a trap.

Sansa put the brush down, choosing to play dumb and hoping to talk Joffrey out of whatever suspicions he may have.

“Where’s this coming from Joff?” Sansa looked at him.

Joffrey shook his head, leaning his back against the door frame once again. “It comes and goes. Just thoughts.”

“Some thoughts aren’t worth feeding,” Sansa tried not to sigh in relief.

“Of course,” he leered at her again. “You wouldn’t have an affair. You couldn’t. You haven’t got the mettle for it. I know you Sans. You ain’t got the stuff to be unfaithful.”

Joffrey checked his watch.

“You done preening or what?”

Sansa turned back to the vanity.

“Go down and start the car, I’ll only be a second.”

Joffrey tutted and left, like some bored teenager, as if he hadn’t just threatened to kill her and then called her too weak to do anything but remain the sweet, simpering housewife he’d made her into. The reflection in the mirror stared hard at her, as pristine as a painted goddess. “Shows him,” she smiled conspiratorially. “The bastard doesn’t even know what’s going on right under his nose. Shows him. What an idiot.”

By the time she made it outside to the car, Joffrey was leaning on the horn, pressing it impatiently. “Let’s go!”

One of the staff held an umbrella for her as she stepped out into the rain in her red shawl, picking up her skirts to avoid the puddles lining forming from the doorstep to the drive.

Once she got in the car she immediately flipped the mirror down to check her hair, her make-up and nails.

“What took you so long? Had to redo your brows?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Eh!” He roughly grabbed her face, holding it to his. “I want none of your lip. We’re going to have a nice evening and you’re going to be on your best behaviour, you hear me! No smoking!”

Sansa held up her hands. “Look Joff, I didn’t even bring them with me. Check my purse if you like.”

“Thats a good girlie, maybe you’re finally listening to me when I say I don’t want you smoking them things any more.”

“Of course, Joff. I always listen to you.”

Joffrey started the car, pulling it out of the drive with a loud screech, and turning onto the road with a violent lurch.

“Besides,” Joffrey spun the wheel carelessly, lurching the car again. “Tonight, we’re going to be entertaining important guests.”

“Who is so important?”

“You should know better than anyone else, nothing is more important than family,” Joffrey grinned and a sickeningly smug sort of way. “That is why I’ve decided to make tonight a family affair.”

Sansa felt her stomach sink all the way to her shoes.

“The stops,” realization dawned on her, much like the churning of her stomach.

“You will make room in the front seat for mum, won’t you?” Joffrey patted her cheek condescendingly, finally pulling the emergency brake up before speeding down the empty street.

~~~~

“This place looks cheap,” Cersei muttered disapprovingly.

“Ah, Mum, it just needs a few classy touches here and there, a lick of paint, some more tasteful statues,” Joffrey leered over at a golden nude in the corner.

“Your coat, madame?” The man at the coatcheck held out his hand to take it from her.

“Fuck off,” she muttered, clutching the faux mink furs closer to her.

Joffrey laughed. Sansa rolled her eyes, taking off her shawl and politely handing it over to the man with a dollar bill tucked underneath the corner.

“I think it looks lovely,” said Myrcella, arm linked with Tommy, admiring the mural as they walked through the foyer into the dining hall.

“Right this way,” the maitre’d guided them once again to the large table fixed to the centre of the room. “Is sir expecting any more guests this evening?”

“What’s it to you, tiny man?” Cersei glared at maitre’d with such a haughty sense of superiority as to fill up a hot air balloon. “Doesn’t my son own the deed to this establishment, does your boss not answer to him?”

“Well, I…yes…”

“Then what matter does it make how many guests he is expecting. Whether it be one or a hundred. We could demand you clear out this entire hall so each of us could have our own table, and that would be your prerogative, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I mean I suppose so…”

“Shut up. You annoy me little man, go away. Bring us some wine while the night is young.”

“Three bottles of Dornish red!” Joffrey ordered.

“Please, not that pig spit. Casterly Rock, 1982, the Bordeaux and be quick about it.”

The maitre’d looked over to Joffrey.

“Do as my mother says,” Joffrey shrugged, taking his place at the centre seat, Sansa at his left, Cersei at his right. With Tommen and Myrcella seated beside her and the two Cleganes seated furthest to Sansa’s left, there were still three empty spaces left on the other side of the table. Sansa presumed they were for guests who would show up later.

“Good evening Monsieur Baratheon,” Olenna appeared by the table side, holding the aforementioned bottle of bitter Bordeaux. It wasn’t nearly as nice as the Dornish red, and truly even Cersei didn’t care for the taste, but it came from the Lannister family vineyards, as poor and infertile as they were, so she would drink it, and swallow down every sip as though it were liquid gold.

“Lenny!” Joffrey hollered in good spirits. “You brought us our wine, how submissive of you.”

Olenna kept a face of geniality.

“No one asks for this particular vintage. I982, not a very good year,” she tutted and held the bottle away from her. “Casterly Rock. Tastes more like Castor Oil, if you ask me.”

“No one did, you besotted old bitch,” Cersei glowered.

“Ah, Cersei,” Olenna smiled. “How kind of you to grace us with your effervescent personality. Surely my humble establishment couldn’t hold a candle to your impeccable tastes,” Olenna leant down near Sansa, pouring her the first glass. “Though I certainly wouldn’t mind having a go at it.”

Sansa had to press her lips down hard to keep herself from cracking a smile. When she looked up from her glass she could sense Joffrey glaring at her, his hand coming to rest warningly on her upper forearm. A gentle hold, but a warning all the same.

Sansa took her glass in her other hand and held it up. “A toast, to you, my husband,” she shifted to face him. “For all that you’ve accomplished so that we may sit here and enjoy dinner amongst family and friends.”

The entire table lifted their now filled glasses, even Cersei, to offer Joffrey cheers. He grinned, pleased. His hand left her forearm to cup her cheek, leaning into to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“What a wife, wouldn’t you say so, mother?” He looked over to Cersei who barely managed to not roll her eyes.

“Truly, despite being worthless as one,” Cersei clinked her glass against her son’s and swallowed down the entire glass.

An awkward silence fell over the table as they all drank from their own glasses, each one trying not to choke on the harsh, sickly sour Bordeaux. Should anyone cough or wince, they would surely be evicted from the table without dinner. Nonetheless, each glass was set down as far out of reach as humanly possible without being obvious.

Joffrey cleared his throat. “You find my wife useless, mother? Do you think I chose poorly? Hmm?”

Cersei poured herself another glass. “Well, she hasn’t done her duty, hasn’t she? Haughty little Sansa hasn’t deigned to bear you children after what six…no seven years of marriage. Not one child.”

“What would you know you stupid old hag!” Joffrey hissed, snatching Cersei's glass from her grip. The look on her face was one of genuine indignation and hurt. Joffrey laughed it off, grabbing the bottle from Cersei’s clinging hands to finish pouring the wine himself, handing her the full glass. “Anyways, it hasn’t been for lack of trying. Sansa’s been fulfilling her purpose on that respect, ain’t that right, my girlie.”

He roughly pinched the apple of Sansa’s cheek, laughing in a disgusting, cruel manner. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her gaze to her lap.

Not long after, their waiter arrived, and the night’s menu was displayed on finely printed white cards with delicate red and gold font. Moules Marinieres, followed by a delicate steak tartare, and a delicious Confit de Canard, ending with the bright bite of a succulent lemon tart.  
Sansa’s stomach churned with the delight of it before Joffrey greedily snatched the menu from her hands.

“What is this French shit?” He muttered, squinting at the card. He handed it over to Cersei who glanced at it dismissively.

“If it’s fish I won’t eat it. The chef will have to make me something else.”

“It’s a set menu,” Sansa uttered before she could stop herself. “They aren’t going to make you something different.”

Cersei’s eyes widened with indignation.

“Listen here, you little cunt,” her words were low and spat out through a tightly wound smile. “As far as I’m concerned, my son owns this establishment, and if I want a fucking plate of fries, he will get me a fucking plate of fries. And if you ever speak to me-“

“Eh, eh, eh,” Joffrey interjected, mercifully. “Come now, Mum. Little Sansa’s right for once. Lenny makes one big meal for the whole place. Everyone’s equal. Our meal is no better or worse than anyone else’s, we’re all eating the same classy French shit, fit for a King. But, if it so happens that the food is not to your liking, perhaps I’ll slip into the kitchen and have them rustle up something more traditional. She’s got enough food in them pantries anyway.”

Cersei softened and leaned over to kiss her son’s cheek. “Your a good boy Joffrey, taking care of me like you do.”

“Anything for my mum,” Joffrey lifted up his wine glass in a toast. “My mum would do anything for me, so I would do anything for her. Its what family does!”

“Hear, hear!” resounded around the table.

Sansa bit her inner cheek and bit back all the bitterness that threatened to rise out her throat and on to her napkin. God she wanted a smoke, anything to give her an excuse to walk away from this table, if only for her moment. With that, her head snapped up, scanning the room as discreetly as possible, looking for a flash of lightning on a black landscape. Every table was occupied with beautifully dressed women and proud looking men, sipping their champagnes and roses, while she swallowed down the harsh, bitter spendings of a spoiled crop. There was one table however, that remained unoccupied. Sitting empty, set for one.

She pulled her gaze down to her lap, just long enough to tamper down her longing. When her gaze returned upright plates of fresh, steamed mussels were being delivered by a silver trolley by a waitress in a striking red uniform.

“Do you expect me to eat that?” Cersei glowered as a plate was set in front of her.

“Come on, mum. That’s class. Mussels are supposed to be like an a-phro-disaic. Make you all beautiful and what have you. Make your skin glow as if you were a fresh spring chicken.”

“That’s oysters,” teased Myrcella, with a childish giggle.

“Shut up you, or you can eat in in the loo!”

“Mom, you wouldn’t!”

“Of course not darling, your brother is just being dramatic.”

Sansa began picking delicately at her mussels. Prying the fleshy meat from the shell and cutting it into small portions. The action was time consuming, and allowed her mind to drift far far away from this table, this room, this life.

“I like mussels,” muttered the Hound to his brother. “Look like tiny cunts.”

Tommy Boy gagged on the mussel he was desperate trying to swallow.

“Ewww, Tommen!” cried Myrcella.

“That bitch has probably poisoned us all,” Cersei threw down her fork.

At the height of all this mayhem Sansa could feel the way room subtly shifted. The door from the main foyer swung open as is slow motion, and even in her periphery she could see the woven black onyx that she had come to know as her salvation.

Petyr, in his long dark coat, carrying his ledgers, walked into the dining hall, right to his table beside the kitchen doors. Sansa’s heart lurched in her chest. Was it even possibly for him to have grown more handsome since the evening last she saw him.

His suit was impeccable, dark blue, with hints of silver. Nothing like the indistinguishable black and white of the men sitting about them, or even more so, the bloody slash of red donning her husband’s chest. He set his books down on the table as he removed his coat, handing it over to the waitress; pulling out two dollar notes from a money clip in his inside pocket and tipping the young woman with a graceful nod of his head.

His eyes lifted upwards to catch hers, the barest beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. He moved with such an elegant ease, dipping into his chair, opening his books with a long flick of his wrist. Sansa could already feel her longing start to pool on the floor of her pelvis.

Last time hadn't been a dream, as she feared. There he was, all darkness and light, and yearning for her.

A server promptly brought him a glass of deep dornish red, and a bottle. He nodded in thanks and tipped him another few dollars. His eyes continued to penetrate as he lifted the glass towards her, offering her a small tip of his head, those grey-green eyes glinting a dark shade than the wine.

Sansa grabbed her own glass, affecting a casual air, being careful to look as though she were only taking a thoughtful sip, instead of delicately suckling the liquid in a pale imitation of her own desire to cup, and cradle, and taste him.

She could see the way his hips shifted in his chair, and she couldn't help but smile, just a little bit.

Clegane, done roughly sopping up the rich buttery liquid that had accompanied his mussels with the bread they had been provided with, looked up to see Joffrey Baratheon's little wifey curiously drinking her wine as though she'd forgotten how to drink. Even he, as uncouth as he was knew this was wine you knocked back your throat to moisten your gut, it was not a wine to be sipped. Not that he had ever sipped anything in his life.

"You alright, bird?" He gently tapped her hand with the blunt end of his fork. "You got glassy eyes. You sick?"

Sansa snapped out of her reverie, with a slight flushed look. "Ah, yes, I think the mussels are not quite agreeing with me."

"If anything's not agreeing with you it's that piss spit you're drinking. Could peel the paint off a jalopy."

"You there," Cersei spoke up, making Sansa jump. "Ugly man with the face."

Clegane looked to her threateningly.

"Go away. You churn my stomach just to look at you," Cersei dismissed him with a wave of her glass. "Joffrey, send your ugly henchmen away."

"We're awaiting a delivery," Joffrey spoke up as though the idea to send them off were his own. "Finish your meals in the kitchen and when the rest of our party arrives, escort them in."

Clegane glowered and muttered a curse under his breath before standing up, tugging the silent Clegane with him.

The two of them left without another word, and the evening continued to pass. As soon as the mussels were cleared the next course came, and Joffrey insisted that no one leave during his story. A dull tale that only seemed to really please his mother.

Myrcella poked Tommy who was beginning to look genuinely green.

"Oh I think he's going to throw up!"

"Eh!" Joffrey leaned over and tapped the boy's face. "This is a classy establishment. There will be no throwing up here!"

"It's that Tyrell woman," Cersei spat.

"I don't think he likes mussels," Myrcella said matter-of-factly.

Tommy lurched, clutching his stomach.

"Eh! Tommy! Whatever comes back out better go right back in again. You hear me, you swallow that back."

Sansa rolled her eyes.

"He needs to be taken to the loo, quickly, before he makes sick on the carpet."

"Are you gonna take him?" Joffrey sneered at her.

"If I have to yes," Sansa stood up. "Come on Tommy, let's get it out of your system. Can you hold it back long enough to make it to the loo?"

He nodded, a sweat forming on his forehead. Sansa leant down to help hoist Tommy to his feet, holding him up as they staggered to the vestibule where the bathrooms were located.

"I'm not-- I can't - I'm not going to make it!"

As soon as they made it into the vesitibule Tommy fell to the ground, unloading the caustic contents of his stomach into a small little corner behind a column.

Sansa stepped back, careful not to get spotted by the foul sick, despite naturally wanting to comfort the poor boy.

He'd barely touched his mussels, she could tell by the contents he wretched up. It was an unsettling reddish-purple, not unlike the Bordeaux.

The door to the vestibule opened and she saw him enter, dark blue suit a blistering contrast to the blood red walls. Her hand rested on Tommy's back, moving in a soothing circular motion.

Petyr looked at her with genuine concern, brows furrowed with a simple question.

She gave him a small nod, and a smile.

Those cheeky eyes, bright green in this light, quietly gestured to the ladies toilets, and playful knowing smirk shared between them. She wished they could sneak in there and steal another moment together, but with Tommy Boy here, she just couldn't see that happening.

She looked down to Tommy then back to Petyr, giving a shake of her head. He nodded in understanding, though she could see a small look of disappointment. She longed to kiss that disappointment away, but the sound of her brother-in-law wretching once more brought her back to reality. It would not be wise for them to be seen together.

He nodded once more and turned to leave, the door just shutting behind him before Tommy lifted his head, his stomach finally cleared.

"Who was that?" he asked shakily, hand still clutching his stomach.

"Nobody, just the maitre'd."

"I'm so sorry Sans...I didn't get any on you, did I?"

"No, you're fine. It's not your fault the food made you sick."

"You must think me a right fool," he rubbed at his eyes, where tears had formed. Either from embarrassment or from all the fluid in his body being violently ejaculated out his face.

"You know I don't, your brother has been and done a lot worse," she reached into her sleeve to pull out her handkerchief for him to wipe his mouth with. "We'll get you some water and have you lie down in the kitchens."

"No, I think I'm alright now. Thank you."

Sansa smiled at him, offering her hand to help him to his feet.

"Are you ready to go back then?"

He nodded, wavering a little on his weak legs.

They made it back to the table right in the middle of one of Joffrey's prophetilizing speeches. Cersei was well into her cups, hanging off her son's arm, while Myrcella looked well and truly bored. Tommy quietly lumbered back to his seat and sat down heavily, resting his head upon his arm. Poor boy, he must feel awful.  
Sansa moved to take her seat but could not help chance a glance to her lover only tables away, still watching with those sharp grey eyes.

"I think these eastern folks like starving," Joffrey said, catching her attention. He was twirling his seafood fork in his hand, catching the light being reflected off the chandeliers. "It keeps them slim and graceful, pleasing to the eyes, you know. With their big heads and dreamy eyes."

He grinned and took a sip from his wine, making an unappetizing slurping noise.

"Joffrey," Sansa gasped. "That's not funny."

"It wasn't supposed to be," he growled, finishing off his wine. "It's fact." He unceremoniously burped from the drink. "And furthermore, I think it's about time we put these eastern refugees to work. Make them earn their keep. Do a little heavy lifting if you know what I mean. If they don't like it they can go back to being slaves in their own damn country."

"You're sick," Sansa gasped.

"By your standards everyone is sick, since your such a prig," he spat at her.

"What do you know about starving Sansa?" Cersei spoke up, waving her glass of wine around as she fixed Sansa with a classic Cersei leer. "You've had your whole life handed to you on a silver platter. Just look at what my son has provided for you. You can have anything you want."

Sansa clenched the napkin on her lap in a tight fist. Her jaw clenching slightly as she let Cersei's words roll right off of her. If she only knew, or could only accept the truth about her beloved son. Sansa knew a lot more than anyone in this restaurant about suffering at the hands of a brutal master.

"Of course," she said defeatedly, not wanting to incur anymore of the woman's wrath tonight.

This was one of the many reasons she detested "family night". Joffrey was rude and cruel all on his own, he did not need his mother's support.

The doors to the kitchen opened and the rest of Joffrey's party approached the table.

"Where've you been?" Joffrey looked up unamused. "Where's grandfather?"

One of the party members. A dwarfish man - sporting blonde curls, and the matching black suit and red tie ensemble established by Joffrey - stepped out from behind Clegane and cleared his throat. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves where they peaked out from under his suit jacket.

"Our father has politely declined tonight's invitation. He had urgent business to attend to regarding some merchant business with the Harrenhal branch. He would like to take you up on a rain check, if you will."

Joffrey groaned and leaned back in chair. "Useless shite." Cersei scoffed bitterly in agreement. "Did you at least pick up the packages I asked you to get?"

The small man nodded. "Yes, all three hundred sets."

Two other thugs stepped forward holding out two cases of copper-tinted silverware before Joffrey's eyes. They had tacky red handles with gold painted lions on them and ultimately looked quite cheap and kitschy. That didn't stop Joffrey and his mother from cooing at the sight of them.

"Excellent. Finally bring this place a little class and style."

The dwarf adjusted the knot on his tie and cleared his throat once more. "Good evening sister," he bowed his head slightly towards Cersei.

Cersei rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat, fixing him with a leer as well. "Tyrion," she muttered humourlessly.

"Go, reset the table with the new cutlery. And show Lenny! I'm sure she'll appreciate the culinary improvement," Joffrey dismissed the Cleganes and the other thug with a wave of his hand.

The dining room was soon filled with surprised cries and indignant exclamations as Joffrey's thugs quickly tore around to every table to replace its cutlery. Even going so far as to rip the standing cutlery right from people's mouths.

"We're going to make this a joint that grandfather can be proud of. He'd love it, wouldn't he mother?"

Cersei nodded. "Of course he would."

Tyrion moved to take one of the empty seats on the other side of the table.

"Eh, who told you, you could sit there?" Joffrey spat coldly, earning himself another cop from his mother.

Tyrion said nothing, only removing his hand and backing away from the chair.

"I was told it was a family invitation."

"It was. And if you had gotten grandfather hear like I'd asked I would've considered it. But you didn't. So I won't. You can eat outside like the rest of the dogs."

The hurt that crossed the man's face was enough for Sansa's to feel a twinge of sympathy for him. Tyrion averted his gaze and nodded, leaving without another word.

"Joffrey, that was cruel," Sansa said, earning herself a harsh smack on the chin with the back of his hand.

Cersei laughed, slovenly.

"Shut up, you," he laughed. "What would you know?"

He and his mother laughed together conspiratorially over their glasses of wine.

Sansa, desperately tried not to rub and the blossom of pain forming under her jaw, and forced back the tears from her eyes.

It was in the middle of reeling back from Joffrey's off-handed treatment of her that she saw Petyr rise from his table. Wiping his mouth with his napkin and closing one of his ledgers. The look in his eye was dark, to say the least. He caught her eye, no pity to be found, only fierce disgust - not at her, but at how she'd been treated. His gaze softened amidst the chaos of the dining room, and he dropped his napkin on his plate. Effortlessly weaving in and out of the flurry of waiters trying to regain control of the hall.

Her eyes followed him as inconspicuously as they could. He reached a swinging door that let to the waiter's vestibule and bar, discreetly nestled in between the dining hall and the kitchen. His hand pressed against the door and his head turned to look at her, offering her a wicked gleam before swinging the door open and disappearing inside.

An invitation.

Sansa looked over to Joffrey, still pontificating on his ideas for cultural reform, to his mother's acclaim.

Sansa lifted her napkin and placed it on the table.

"Where you going?" spat Joffrey. "You better not be going out for a smoke."

"Someone's got to tell someone about the sick Tommy left in the hallway," she lied easily, adjusting her skirts as she stood. "Olenna should know if something is wrong with her food. I'll only be a minute."

"Someone else can deal with that. I'll send Clegane."

"It requires a delicate touch, my dear, to tell a chef that their cooking is bad. A woman's touch. Besides, if one of these people see a hallway covered in vomitus they'll write the place up and it will be a nightmare. Best to have everything taken care of. Especially for my husband," she gently squeezed us hand in a mockery of seduction. Pleased when his mouth curled upwards in a sickening leer.

"My wife," he tutted proudly. "She ain't half bad. Has her moments."

"Mmm," Cersei muttered over the rim of her wine glass.

It took all of Sansa's willpower not to run to Petyr. Run, and then keep on running, until she was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooow you guys, I am such a good writer...it only took my what? Three years to update this fic. *gives sheepish grin*
> 
> But just in time! On the eve of the last episode of GoT that is ever going to hold any particular meaning for us. Honestly I've been catching up on Peaky Blinders in the hopes to make a smooth transition over to what I hope is a heavily mustachiod Aidan Gillen over there. But not my fics! No.
> 
> ~~ A moment of solidarity ~~
> 
> I haven't been very active in this fandom very long. I'm honestly a little shy, and mostly like to write my ideas and read other people's works without causing too much of a kerfuffle, but what I have always loved about this fandom is our ability to laugh in the face of those who tell us our love for these characters are wrong, or inappropriate and we have just said "Yep" and then danced away with our middle fingers up. The community is fun, with a devilish sense of humour, no sense of propriety, and a wonderful girth and respect for ideas. So I thank you all for that.
> 
> And with that I say:  
> No matter what happens tonight! No matter what shite we are forced to swallow as canon.  
> No matter how shoddy the knocking if of his mortal coil maybe.
> 
> In my fics and in my ideas, Petyr Baelish will live on!
> 
> PETYR BAELISH WILL LIVE ON!
> 
> Keep Shady my creepies.  
> #keepshady2017


	5. Friday ~ The Pantry

Sansa cautiously walked out of the dining hall, just barely peeking one eye over her shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention to where she was going. She walked steadily and with purpose as though she had an important matter to discuss with the chef. Her palm resting on the cool surface of the swinging doors for just a moment before pressing and disappearing into the murky unknown. The waiter's vestibule was low lit with tea lights reflecting off glistening crystal flutes, shimmering wine glasses, and polished copper carafes hanging in mesmerizing rows above a hypnotic black onyx island where a single waiter stood vigil in his bright red uniform.   
His back was to Sansa, busy polishing a fresh batch of newly washed tumblers off a steel rack. 

Her shoes made nothing but a soft shuffle along the glossy black floor, her eyes searching for something. For him. For a clue of some sort. She did see him come in here, she was sure of it. 

Sansa took one step further into the light before a hand reached out of no where and clasped her wrist, dragging her back into the shadows behind the swinging doors. Her first urge was to scream, but a hand came up to cover her mouth; a ringed hand, flickering with emerald. In an instant her instinct for flight dissipated, completely replaced with another overwhelming urge. 

She turned in his embrace, falling against his chest, just seeing the grey flicker in his eyes reflected off a candle. Something akin to joy bubbled up her chest and she threw her arms around his neck.   
The kiss she gave him was sweet, and she could feel his arms wrap around her back, pulling her flush to him and spinning her around to the wall, pressing further. 

She almost giggled - when was the last time she had made such a pure sound? She could feel him, his wiry muscle, the smooth planes of his chest and the increasing bulge in his dark trousers. She smiled into their kiss, eager to continue the sweet game they had started the evening previous. 

Petyr pulled away, bringing a hand to cup her face, smiling in the dim light. He kissed her once more, briefly. Then again, this time sucking her lower lip between his teeth before releasing her succulent red pouting mouth. The door to the vestibule swung open, blocking them momentarily from view. Panic struck her but she was soon calmed by his softly calloused hand slipping into her palm and wrapping around her dainty gloved fingers. 

Without a word he tugged her further into the walls, along the shadows, leading her past the rows of shimmering glass and crystal, to a small door leading into the kitchen. 

The green light was a heady mix of mingling steam, and effervescent emerald and shadow that Sansa felt she had walked straight out of the L'oiseau Morqueur and into a dream. Petyr turned back to look at her, and smiled, bringing his hand to her cheek and rubbing his thumb lightly over the apple of her cheek. She sunk into the small gesture, her eyes closing momentarily before flittering back to his with a look of pure sultry lust. Sansa turned her head and planted a wet open-mouthed kiss to the centre of his palm.

"Ahem," a cough sounded behind Petyr and Sansa froze. Her heart stopped dead in her chest and fear shot up through the core of her.

Olenna stood behind them, pot in hand, a hard look passing between them. She said nothing outright besides the cough. Sansa clutched Petyr's hand tightly, removing it from her face but keeping it in her grasp as she slunk behind him, almost like he were a shield to brace her from this beautiful dream crashing down around them.

Petyr turned to Olenna, squeezing Sansa's perfectly manicured fingers in their shared clasp. He did not speak either, but what he said with a mere look seemed to soften Olenna's hard gaze. She turned to Sansa with a question to which Sansa answered with a simple but sure nod.

Olenna's eyes pierced her for a long moment, combing the depths of Sansa's psyche with her grandmotherly gaze. Only for a few seconds, before that look softened into a small grin. She took a solitary, conspiratorial step towards Sansa and clasped her hand, her face leaning in close, just enough to give the young red-head a surreptitious wink. Sansa relaxed her tight hold on Petyr's hands and let out a small breath she didn't know she'd been holding. 

With one last knowing and guileful look to Petyr, Olenna tugged the pair into the kitchen, as though giving them the private tour. She placed the pot in her hands on the prep table to her right, where another chef stood vigorously stirring a hollandaise. Sansa released Petyr's hand, her nose catching the enticing aroma of vinegar and bay leaf. A curiosity she could not help but follow. Watching the man whisk the bright yellow foam to an almost custard-like consistency. It was entrancing in its own simplicity. The chef, an older man, balding, with a long greying beard and a stained frock, stopped his motions as Sansa approached him. His lidded, droopy eyes lifted and brightened at the beautiful woman gaining an interest in his work. He looked over to Olenna who nodded her consent before offering his pot of sauce to Sansa for a taste. The pad of one finger just dipped into the golden substance and fell in between red painted lips. The taste was...good, but not right, not perfect. On the prep table a pile of salt flakes lay, beckoning; Sansa looked up to Olenna for permission. The older woman smiled and bowed her head. Sansa smiled, feeling honoured, and grabbed just a pinch of the flakes and crushed them delicately in her fingers over the sauce, letting the chef stir them into oblivion. Another taste and her eyes closed in pleasure; that's what had been missing.

Sansa's eyes opened and slid slowly to where Petyr stood just behind her, watching her hungrily. Sansa could guess it was not the sauce that aroused his appetite. He looked as though he wanted to devour her. It sent a flush as deep and as red as current compote through her body. 

Olenna gestured with her hand for them to follow her. Petyr immediately turned to Sansa and kissed her hand, his eyes flashing with concern...or perhaps not. It was permission. He was asking her once again if this was what she wanted. Her desire for him flooded anew. If she hadn't wanted him before, she was desperate for him now. She nodded, squeezing his hand once again.

Petyr tugged her behind Olenna, his free hand coming to the small of her back as he looked around the kitchen, ensuring their secrecy. Olenna pulled back a sheer screen, curtaining off the entrance to the dry pantry, ushering them inside. It wasn't perfect, but they would be unseen. Olenna fixed them with one last gaze that spoke as authoritatively as if it were a verbal command: "Be quick."

In a moment the pantry was closed off and they were alone; Olenna standing guard outside with her flurry of sous chefs and prep cooks.   
The two of them stood apart, surrounded by cured spicy meats and shelves of fresh breads and uncut rolls of gouda and Brie still in their wax. There was hay spilt on to the floor from one of the large crates full of different varieties of egg, from ostrich to chicken to quail. All nestled in their little hay beds.

Sansa looked around the room, thoughtless as to where to start, or what to do, now that she could do anything. The floor looked cold and uncomfortable and there was really no other surface for her to climb onto, but the moment she turned her back Petyr assuaged her doubt in a heartbeat.

Those warm hands came to her waist and gently cupped the delicate curves of her hip bones. His mouth immediately came to the back of her neck and began kissing and sucking and licking underneath her jaw. Sansa sunk back into him, feeling his pronounced erection pressing into her lower back. She brought her hand up and back to grip the short hairs at the back of his head, holding him to her as he ravaged her neck with kisses, careful not to suck too hard on her pale skin. There could be no evidence or Joffrey would know, and then he would kill them both. Sansa couldn't deny the danger made it a little more exciting. Her other hand drifted to one of his on her hip and brought it below the hem of her skirt to rest on the exposed skin of her thigh. She had foregone underwear that night under the guise that the black lace pair she would've worn were in the wash. Joffrey had leered and clicked his tongue, and promised her if she behaved herself at dinner he would treat her bare shaven pussy with some tender fucking later on in the evening. A hollow promise, because Joffrey rarely cared for tenderness or kindness. He would treat her the way he always had: exactly as befits his mood. In all their years of marriage Sansa would never have described any of Joffrey's moods to be particularly kind.   
But now - as Petyr's hand slid over her bare garters and dipped into her wetness, letting it pool onto his fingers - all thoughts of her husband slipped from her mind as she and her secret lover shared a mutual groan. Those elegant fingers teased over her lips, over the sparse patch of red hair just at her pelvic bone; pulled at the hood of her clit, then rubbed along the entire length of her labia - biting softly at the lobe of her ear as his finger swirled over her clit once more. Sansa hissed and gyrated into his hand, pushing her ass into his erection. His hand left her, and her whole body ached desperately at the loss. Before she could grieve too long though, he spun her in his arms and kissed her; a fierce, hungry kiss, that stole the air from her lungs. The scent of her own arousal hung pungently around her, filling her mind with a heady powerful feeling emanating from her toes and glowing red hot at the apex of her legs.

Sansa kissed him just as fiercely, using her grip on his jaw as leverage. Petyr’s face for well inside her hands. She wanted to fit herself inside him. 

The tie at his throat was the first to go, furiously plucked at by prying fingers, then pulled and yanked until it gave. The buttons of his shirt followed, hastily pried from their holes, until she reached the buckle of his belt where she cupped him. He pulled back, eyes clouded with green-tinged lust and a sweet aching sigh. Her hand left him and instead moved to pull his shirt off, though he stopped her with a coaxing hand on her hip, turning her away so that he could unwrap her from her dress. She gripped the edge of the shelf in front of her as she stepped out of her heels and unclipped her stocking from their garter belts. Petyr loosened the ties of her dress and pressed kisses on to the exposed flesh of her back; trailing them upwards to her neck. She removed the dangling fascinator from her hair, and the lattice-lace gloves from her hands and placed them on the shelf. Her hands burned to touch him again, to feel his pulse beating rapidly underneath her hands. She practically ripped her dress off her own body.

Now mostly naked, save for her garters and the black see-through lace bra, she turned to him, seeing that he had managed to strip himself bare while she'd been fiddling with her clothes. Her breath caught.  
Slashed down the middle of his chest was an ugly pink and silvery-white scar, nearly bisecting his torso in two. It began just underneath his collarbone and trailed all the way down to the top of his pelvis where his cock hung invitingly. 

She looked up at him with worry in her eyes. Who had done that to him?   
Petyr shrugged. She moved to touch it but he clasped her hand before she could reach it and laced their fingers together, smiling in that sad way of his. Now was not the time for sad stories. He pulled her underneath an archway that separated the two sections of the pantry. Leaning his back against the creamy yellow wall, and pulling her into his embrace, skin to skin, flush and hot. He kissed her softly, distracting her from the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.   
All thoughts left her and gave way to feeling. The feel of him against every bare inch of her. The slide of him between her thighs, hot and damp; his tongue laving her throat with tender caresses. She reached out to clasp the wall, the shelves, anything to keep her from floating away. He grinded, and slid, and kissed, and it was all she could do not to totally obliterate against this onslaught of devotion. She caught his mouth in a long lingering kiss, then achingly pulled herself from his embrace, turning and leaning herself against the opposite wall of the arch, curving her back seductively, enticingly. She wanted to be filled with him.

There was a moment of hesitation, or perhaps it was admiration, as he took in the sight of her, offered up to him so prettily. Soon though, his body molded over hers like clay, fitting up to every one of her dips and curves and niches as though he had been carved that way. One hand covering hers on the wall, fingers lacing - the other sweeping down the delicious curve of her body to his own, gently fitting himself into her with a gentle press. A soft groan left him, barely a murmur in the small dank room, but weighted, heavy and moist with a mist of sweat building on his upper arms and back.  
He rocked inwards, slowly, his forehead dropping to the curve of her nape, his hand sliding down her thigh. His pace was agonizing; slow and savoury. He was savouring her. Dipping in and back, then circling his hips upwards and pistoning forward, ripping a sharp gasp from her mouth.   
All Sansa could do was feel, and it was like drowning. Sweet and succulent drowning by pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween creepies!  
> Here, have a treat :P

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily (HEAVILY) inspired by the film The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, Her Lover. Yes, that is it's actual title.  
> You do not need to watch the film to understand this fic, but it is a great movie if you're interested and have a strong stomach.
> 
> Olenna Tyrell - The Cook  
> Joffrey Baratheon - The Thief  
> Sansa Stark - His Wife  
> Petyr Bealish - Her lover.
> 
> This is another one of my weird writing experiments. I hope you enjoy.


End file.
